■?j mub^ V 5''' .■i"'^ 



D 










').;'■ 











^ 



n^ ^r'% ^MM 



^v /^/r:^ 



.■'h 






-1^. 



oX 









^. '^. ''^'"^"-i 



ci- 



•.V 






ci-. 



%. ". 



^: 






^. 



<^. 







''/ o 



^^ 






oq: 



>P^^. 



^0 



^ 



Q^ s'' "" r/ -^^ - 



.v^^' ^^ 






■> 



^ 



,-0' 



'^ ''■ 



\ 



<^0 



-/. * n K o 



f 



-"^ G^ 









i><^ 
1.^^ "-^ 




.^^^ 



o^co:^.<c^^^ 



..s^ .A 









9 1 '^ 



^0- 



.^' 






* 4^' 






"O 



^^•^ ^*, 



0x0 



>>' 



'^^. ^ 






'X 












^"^ -n*. 




,x» 



€6e ^Mt^Mttttt!^ ^ttitfi 



SECTION III 

-THE ENGLISH DRAMA 

FROM ITS BEGINNING TO THE PRESENT DAY 



GENERAL EDITOR 

GEORGE PIERCE BAKER 

PROFESSOR OF ENGLISH IN 
HARVARD UNIVERSITY 




MARY STUART 



IN CAPTIVITY AT SHEFFIELD CASTLE 

FROM THE PAINTING BY P. OUDRY IN THE COLLECTION OF THE 

DUKE OF DEVONSHIRE K. G. AT HARDWICK HALL 



MARY STUART 



BY 



ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE 



EDITED BY 

WILLIAM MORTON PAYNE, LL.D. 

ASSOCIATE EDITOR OF *« THE DIAL " 



BOSTON, U.S.A., AND LONDON 

D. C. HEATH &. CO., PUBLISHERS 
1906 



LIBRARY of CONGRESS 
Two Conies Received 

AUG 23 1906 

CopyriKm tniry 

GLAS5/ ^ XXc. No. 

COPY 8. 






COPYRIGHT, 1906, BY D, C. HEATH & CO. 
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED 



To 
G. M. 



pvtfatovv Bott 



The selection for the purposes of the Belles-Lettres Se- 
ries of the play most strictly representative of Swinburne's 
dramatic work has been determined by the following con- 
siderations. The Siueen Mother and Rosamond are out of 
the qu«6tion because of their immaturity j Atalanta in 
Calydon and Erechtheus are put aside because of the fact 
that their proper classification is with the lyrical rather than 
with the dramatic group of his poems. There remain the 
Mary Stuart trilogy and the four later dramas. Since 
the trilogy is unquestionably Swinburne's dramatic master- 
work, it must be represented, and (Bothnvell being ex- 
cluded by its great length) the choice must fall upon 
either Cbastelard or Mary Stuart. The former of these 
plays is essentially a production of the poet's unchastened 
and exuberant youth, and consequently, despite the patent 
beauty of its poetic diction, must give place to the latter, 
which exemplifies the full ripeness of Swinburne's dramatic 
powers and the complete mastery of his poetical material. 
The fact, moreover, that the author has himself avowed 
the belief that he has never *< written anything worthier " 
in its kind than Mary Stuart should confirm the justice 
of the selection. A further reason is incidentally provided 
by the fact that Schiller's treatment of the close of the 
career of the Queen of Scots is made the subject of much 



study in school and college, a feet which makes it inter- 
esting to compare his treatment with that of Swinburne. 
The present text follows the so-called second edition 
of 1899, which is, however, an unaltered reprint of the 
original edition of 1 8 8 1 . 

W. M. P. 



■Btogmp]^^ 



Algernon Charles Swinburne was born in London, April 
5, 1837. He was the oldest child of Admiral Charles Henry 
Swinburne and Lady Jane Henrietta, daughter of the third Earl 
of Ashburnham. Both the Swinburne and the Ashburnham line- 
ages are long and distinguished. The present head of the family is 
Sir John Edward Swinburne, sixth baronet, a first cousin of the 
poet. Algernon was educated at Eton and Balliol, but left Oxford 
without taking a degree. During his university years (1856— 1860) 
he contributed to Undergraduate Papers^ distinguished himself in 
French, Italian, and the classics, and began his life-long friendship 
with Morris, Rossetti, and Burne-Jones. His first book. The S^een 
Mother and Rosamond^ was published in i860, just after leaving 
the university. A visit to Italy the next year was made memorable 
by his meeting with Walter Savage Landor. Returning to England, 
he devoted himself to literary work, in 1865 won the applause 
of the judicious with his Atalanta in Calydon and Chastelard, and 
in 1866 took the public by storm with the famous first volume 
of Poems and Ballads. During the next twelve years he lived in 
London, and wrote industriously. The chief works of this period 
are William Blake: A Critical Essay (1868), Songs before Sun- 
rise (1871), Bothivell (1874), Essays and Studies (1875), Songs 
of T1V0 Nations (1875), Erechtheus (1876), and the second series 
of Poems and Ballads (1878). During these years in London he 
became intimately associated with Theodore Watts (now Watts- 
Dunton), and in 1879 accepted the invitation of that distinguished 
man of letters to share his home at Putney Hill, a London suburb. 
Here the poet has lived ever since, except for a few holiday excur- 
sions, and here he has produced the long succession of books that 
have added almost yearly to his ever-broadening fame. The prin- 
cipal titles are : A Study of Shakespeare {l%%o)j Songs of the Spring- 
tides (1880), Studies in Song (1880), Mary Stuart (1881), Tris- 
tram of Lyonesse (i88a), A Century of Roundels (iSS'^), A Mid- 
summer Holiday {lii4)i Marino Faliero (l%%^)^A Study of Victor 



viii BiograpJ^ 

Hugo (1886), Miscellanies (1886), Locrine (1887), a third series 
oi Poems and Ballads {1%%^)^ The Sisters (iS ^2)^ Astrophel {l%<)^y 
Studies in Prose and Poetry (1894), The Tale of Balen (1896), 
Rosamund^ S^ueen of the Lombards (1899), A Channel Passage 
(1904), and Lo've'' s Cross Currents (1905), a novel in epistolary 
form, published serially and pseudonymously in 1877, and written 
in the early sixties. The foregoing list omits several works of minor 
importance, and takes no account of a large amoimt of material 
still uncollected from the pages of the periodicals to which it was 
contributed. The poet has recently superintended a uniform reissue 
of his verse, the Poemsy in six volumes, and the Tragedies j in five 
volumes. Of late years Swinburne has lived a somewhat secluded 
life, owing in large measure to the infirmity of deafness, but he 
retains his active interest in the historical happenings of the time. 



ginttoDuctfon 



Swinburne is the author of eleven dramatic works, 
all tragedies, and all written in verse. ^ The list com- 
prises: first, the two juvenile pieces. The Queen Mother 
and Rosamond, included in his earliest volume ; second, 
Atalanta in Calydon and Erechtheus, his two repro- 
ductions of the Greek form ; third, the colossal chron- 
icle-trijpgy which deals with the tragic fortunes of the 
Queen of Scots, and which consists of Chastelard, 
Bothzvell, and Mary Stuart ; and fourth, the tragedies 
of his later years, which are Marino Falieroy Locrine, 
The Sisters, and Rosamund, Queen of the Lombards, 
Of these eleven productions the two Greek studies, 
being essentially lyrical in spirit and accent, are grouped 
with the Poems in their author's classification of his 
works, while the remaining nine constitute the Tragedies 
in that classification, and occupy five of the eleven vol- 
umes which make up the new uniform edition of Swin- 
burne's verse. It is an account of these nine tragedies 
that is now attempted. 

In the Dedicatory Epistle of 1904, inscribing the 
new edition of his works to Theodore Watts-Dunton, 

^ Since this essay is given up exclusively to the study of Swin- 
burne's dramatic verse, its readers may be referred, for a more com- 
prehensive view of his work, and for those considerations which 
compel us to regard him as the greatest poet now living, to the 
present editor's Introduction to Selected Poems by Algernon Charles 
Sivinburne^ published in the section of the Belles-Lettres Series de- 
voted to Nineteenth Century Poets. 



X 3IntroUuttion 

his '*best and dearest friend/* Swinburne thus speaks 
of his first venture in dramatic composition : ** My 
first if not my strongest ambition was to do something 
worth doing, and not utterly unworthy of a young 
countryman of Marlowe the teacher and Webster the 
pupil of Shakespeare, in a line of work which those 
three poets had left as a possibly unattainable example 
for ambitious Englishmen. And my first book, written 
while yet under academic or tutorial authority, bore 
evidence of that ambition in every line. I should be the 
last to deny that it also bore evidence of the fact that 
its writer had no more notion of dramatic or theatrical 
construction than the authors of Tamburlaine the 
Great, King Henry FJ, and Sir Thomas Wyatt. ' * This 
self-criticism seems a trifle severe as applied to The 
^een Mother y which play, whatever its faults of man- 
nerism, of obscurity or super-subtlety, of turgid diction, 
and of over-emphasis of its sensuous elements, is at least 
structurally coherent and dramatically effective in the 
Elizabethan manner. It preserves the unities of time 
and place, the scene being laid in Paris during the three 
days that culminated with the night of the massacre of 
St. Bartholomew, and many an Elizabethan play has less 
unity of action. Rosamond, which is also included in this 
first volume, is a much slighter aiFair. It is a dramatic 
sketch in five scenes, alternating between the king's 
palace at Shene and the bower at Woodstock, and 
dealing with the secret love of Henry II and the venge- 
ance taken by his jealous queen. An interesting com- 
parison might be made between this work and Tenny- 
son's Beckety in which the same theme receives episodic 
treatment. 



iBntroHttction xi 

Swinburne's chief dramatic work is the great trilogy 
which occupied his attention for a score of years, and 
which has for its central figure the ill-starred Queen of 
Scots. Here was a subject magnificently fitted for 
tragic uses, and appealing with peculiar force to a poet 
whose own ancestors had fought and bled in the Stuart 
cause. And so the woman whose figure had been the 
** red star of boyhood's fiery thought " occupied the 
best years of the poet's manhood with an endeavor to 
set forth her varied fortunes in a drama of colossal 
plan, affd to embody in the characterization something 
of the "love and wonder" with which her memory 
had inspired the ** April age " of his youth. Chaste- 
lardy the first section of the trilogy, was published in 
1865, but its writing dates, at least in part, from an 
earlier period. In his Adieux a Marie Stuart, writ- 
ten after the completion of the trilogy in 1881, Swin- 
burne speaks of "the song . . . that took your 
praise up twenty years ago," and in the Dedicatory 
Epistle already mentioned he calls Chastelard a play 
** conceived and partly written by a youngster not yet 
emancipated from servitude to college rule." He fiir- 
ther says, after disclaiming any ascription to his earlier 
volume of ** power to grapple with the realities and 
subtleties of character and of motive," that in Chaste- 
lard "there are two figures and a sketch in which I 
certainly seem to see something of real and evident 
life." 

The figures here referred to are, it is hardly neces- 
sary to state, those of the Queen and of the poet-lover 
who has come with her from France to Scotland, 



xii 3|ntrotmction 

while the sketch is that of Darnley. In the play, the 
Queen weds Darnley as an immediate consequence of 
her imagined discovery of Chastelard's unfaithfulness, 
whereas the historical fact is that the marriage did not 
take place until more than two years after the execu- 
tion of Chastelard. The four women who are the 
personal attendants of Mary Stuart, and who are 
known in Scotch romance and minstrelsy as "the 
Queen's Maries," figure prominently in Chastelard, 
and the motive of the tragedy is provided by the 
Queen's belief that her lover has played her false with 
one of them. In a sense, the motive of the entire 
trilogy is thus provided, for this woman, Mary Bea- 
ton, loves Chastelard, although her affection is unre- 
quited. And when, twenty-five years after his death, 
her mistress expiates upon the scaffold at Fotheringay 
the accumulated errors and crimes of a lifetime, the 
direct agency in bringing about the tragic consumma- 
tion is this same Mary Beaton, who has for all these 
years in silent persistency guarded her secret and cher- 
ished her vengeful purpose. Chastelard meets his fate 
as a ** verray parfit gentil knight," breathing no word 
of reproach upon the Queen's fame, and taking upon 
himself the entire burden of their common guilt. The 
closing scenes are dark with foreshadowings of what is 
to come in after years. Says the Queen, alone with her 
doomed lover for the last time : 

" I am quite sure 
I shall die sadly some day, Chastelard, 
I am quite certain." Act v, Scene 2. 



3|ntroDttction xiii 

And Chastelard : 

** Men must love you in life's spite j 
For you will always kill them, man by man 
Your lips will bite them dead ; yea, though you would, 
You shall not spare them j all will die of you." 

Act V, Scene a. 

And Mary Beaton, pleading for Chastelard' s life : 

" If you do slay him you are but shamed to death : 
All men will cry upon you, women weep, 
Turning your sweet name bitter with their tears j 
R«d shame grow up out of your memory 
And burn his face that would speak well of you j 
You shall have no good word nor pity, none, 
Till some such end be fallen upon you." 

Act IV, Scene i. 

And the prayer of Mary Beaton, when the headsman 
has done his work, and the cry, "So perish the Queen's 
traitors ! " goes up from the multitude, is this : 

** Yea, but so 
Perish the Queen ! God do thus much to her 
For his sake only : yea, for pity's sake 
Do this much with her." Act v, Scene 3. 

Thus the tragedy closes, heavy with the sense that 
somewhere in the dim future it will be complemented 
by another and more resounding tragedy, and the ends 
of a retributive justice be accomplished. It is evident 
that the entire trilogy was outlined in some shape in 
the poet's consciousness before the completion of this 
introductory section. 

Bothwell, the second section of the trilogy, did not 
appear until 1874, which means that nearly ten of 
Swinburne's most virile years went to its composition. 



xiv 31ntroDuction 

It covers a period of a little more than two years, from 
March 9, 1566, to May 16, 1568, — that is, from 
the assassination of Rizzio to the escape of the Queen 
into England after the battle of Langside. The five 
acts are respectively entitled David Rizzio y Bothwelly 
Jane Gordon^ John Knox, and The Queen. The first 
act deals with the conspiracy for the removal of the 
Queen's Italian favorite, and ends with his being dragged 
from her helpless presence to death at the hands of 
Darnley and his fellow assassins. In the second act, 
Bothwell, whose advent into the Queen's life had been 
ominously heralded at the very close of Chastelard, 
and whose ambitious passion for Mary was already 
kindled, although he had but recently been wedded 
to Jane Gordon, becomes the central figure. Nearly 
a year is covered by this act, and the events are the 
Queen's escape, with Bothwell' s aid, from her self- 
constituted guardians, the flight and outlawry of Rizzio' s 
slayers, the birth of the child who was afterwards to 
become James I of England, the investment of Both- 
well with titles and estates, and the plot against Darn- 
ley, now hated by all parties alike for his treachery 
and double-dealing. The act ends with his ignomini- 
ous death at his lonely lodgings in Kirk of Field. In 
the third act, Bothwell, who is denounced on every 
hand as the murderer of Darnley, is protected fi-om 
popular vengeance by the Queen, who becomes more 
shameless than ever in her intercourse with him. Then 
follows his farcical trial and acquittal for lack of evi- 
dence, his further advancement in power and wealth, 
his divorce fi-om Lady Jane Gordon, whom he had 



3|ntroiJuction xv 

wedded only the year before, his marriage with the 
Queen, his flight with her to the refuge of Borthwick 
Castle, the siege and capture of the castle by the confed- 
erated lords, and Bothwell's escape, followed by that 
of the Queen in the disguise of a page. The fourth act 
opens with the array of the opposing forces at Carberry 
Hill, followed by proposals and counter-proposals to 
settle the engagement by single combat, and the final 
agreement that Bothwell shall retire unmolested while 
the Queen remains a prisoner. Here, after a passion- 
ate scene of parting, Bothwell disappears from the 
Queen's sight forever, fleeing into exile, and imprison- 
ment, and ignominy. The following scenes show us 
the Queen at Edinburgh in the hands of her captors, 
and John Knox in the High Street denouncing her in 
what is probably the longest uninterrupted speech to be 
found anywhere in dramatic literature, a speech of 
something like four hundred verses. At the close of 
this act the Queen is about to be conveyed to the island 
castle of Lochleven, which has been chosen as the 
safest available place for her bestowal. In the fifth act, 
we have the forced abdication of the Queen in favor 
of her infant son, and her consent to the regency of 
Murray, her half-brother. Then follows her escape 
from her island-prison, the rallying of her scattered 
friends to her defence, her final stand and disastrous 
defeat at Langside, her flight to the border, and her 
last view, standing on the shores of Solway Firth, of 
her native land. The closing words of the drama are 
those with which she goes into her life-long exile, and 
give expression, robed in the utmost magnificence of 



\ 



xvi JlntroUuction 

poetic diction, to the passionate resolution with which 
she confronts the future, and looks to it for the requital 
of all the wrong that has been done her, and all the 
shame that has been wrought upon her during her seven 
years' sojourn in Scotland. 

*' Methinks the sand yet cleaving to my foot 
Should not with no more words be shaken off, 
Nor this my country from my parting eyes 
Pass unsaluted ; for who knows what year 
May see us greet hereafter ? Yet take heed, 
Ye that have ears, and hear me ; and take note, 
Ye that have eyes, and see with what last looks 
Mine own take leave of Scotland 5 seven years since 
Did I take leave of my fair land of France, 
My joyous mother, mother of my joy, 
Weeping ; and now with many a woe between 
And space of seven years' darkness, I depart 
From this distempered and unnatural earth 
That casts me out unmothered, and go forth 
On this gray sterile bitter gleaming sea 
With neither tears nor laughter, but a heart 
That from the softest temper of its blood 
Is turned to fire and iron. If I live, 
If God pluck not all hope out of my hand, 
If aught of all mine prosper, I that go 
Shall come back to men's ruin, as a flame 
The wind bears down, that grows against the wind, 
And grasps it with great hands, and wins its way. 
And wins its will, and triumphs 5 so shall I 
Let loose the fire of all my heart to feed 
On these that would have quenched it. I will make 
From sea to sea one furnace of the land. 
Whereon the wind of war shall beat its wings 
Till they wax faint with hopeless hope of rest. 
And with one rain of men's rebellious blood 
■ Extinguish the red embers. I will leave 
No living soul of their blaspheming faith 



31ntroDuction xvii 

Who war with monarchs : God shall see me reign 

As he shall reign beside me, and his foes 

Lie at my foot with mine j kingdoms and kings 

Shall from my heart take spirit, and at my soul 

Their souls be kindled to devour for prey 

The people that would make its prey of them. 

And leave God's altar stripped of sacrament 

As all kings' heads of sovereignty, and make 

Bare as their thrones his temples ; I will set 

Those old things of his holiness on high 

That are brought low, and break beneath my feet 

These new things of men's fashion j I will sit 

And see tears flow from eyes that saw me weep, 

And dust and ashes and the shadow of death 

Cast from the block beneath the axe that falls 

On heads that saw me humbled ; I will do it, 

Or bow mine own down to no royal end. 

And give my blood for theirs if God's will be, . 

But come back never as I now go forth 

With but the hate of men to track my way, 

And not the face of any friend alive. ' ' 

Thus ends a work which has the distinction of being 
not only the longest of Swinburne's dramas, but also the 
longest production of its class in the whole of English 
literature. The five acts are divided into sixty scenes, 
and comprise nearly fifteen thousand lines of blank 
verse. The dramatis personae number in the neighbor- 
hood of sixty, each one of whom is a character occu- 
pying a definite niche, if not a pedestal, in the history 
of that troublous time. The author's own comment 
upon Bothwell is as follows : *< That ambitious, con- 
scientious, and comprehensive piece of work is of course 
less properly definable as a tragedy than by the old 
Shakespearean term of a chronicle-history. . . . This 



xviii 31ntroliuctton 

play of mine was not, I think, inaccurately defined as 
an epic drama in the French verses of dedication which 
were acknowledged by the greatest of all French poets 
in a letter from which I dare only quote one line of 
Olympian judgment and godlike generosity. * Occu- 
per ces deux cimes, cela n'est donne qu'a vous.' 
Nor will I refrain from the confession that I cannot 
think it an epic or a play in which any one part is sac- 
rificed to any other, any subordinate figure mishandled 
or neglected or distorted or effaced for the sake of the 
predominant and central person. And though this has 
nothing or less than nothing to do with any question 
of poetic merit or demerit, of dramatic success or un- 
success, I will add that I took as much care and pains 
as though I had been writing or compiling a history of 
the period to do loyal justice to all the historic figures 
which came within the scope of my dramatic or poetic 
design. There is not one which I have designedly 
altered or intentionally modified : it is of course for 
others to decide whether there is one which is not the 
living likeness of an actual or imaginable man." 

Before leaving Bothwell for a discussion of Mary 
Stuart i two contemporary judgments may be quoted, 
both framed within a year of its publication. E. C. 
Stedman said of it : ** I agree with them who de- 
clare that Swinburne, by this massive and heroic com- 
position, has placed himself in the front line of our 
poets, that no one can be thought his superior in true 
dramatic power. The work not only is large, but writ- 
ten in a large manner. It seems deficient in contrasts, 
especially needing the relief which humor, song, and 



illntroUuction xix 

by-play afford to a tragic plot. But it is a great histor- 
ical poem, cast in a dramatic rather than epic form, for 
the sake of stronger analysis and dialogue. Considered 
as a dramatic epic, it has no parallel, and is replete with 
proofs of laborious study and faithful use of the rich 
materials afforded by the theme. , , . Bothwell ex- 
hibits no excess but that of length, and no mannerism ; 
on the contrary, a superb manner, and a ripe, pure, and 
majestic style." ^ J. A. Symonds wrote of it in these 
terms : ** It is surely a wonderful work of art. I do 
not think anything greater has been produced in our 
age, in spite of its inordinate length and strange affect- 
ation of style. However, one reads one's self into a 
sympathy with his use of language, and then the sus- 
tained effort of thought and imagination is overpower- 
ing in its splendour. It seems to me the most virile 
exercise of the poetic power in combination with his- 
toric accuracy that our literature of this century can 
show." 2 

The completion of the dramatic trilogy is given us 
in Mary Stuart ^ which appeared in 1 88 1 . This drama 
is hardly more than one third the length of Bothwell, 
and requires only about half as many characters for its 
unfolding. When it opens, over eighteen years have 
elapsed since the Queen crossed Solway Firth, and she 
is now within a few months of her doom. Exactly 
stated, the period of the play is from August 4, 1586, 
to February 8, i 587. It opens with the Babington con- 

* Victorian Poets, revised edition (1887), p. 406. 
^ John Addington Symonds: A Biography. H. F. Brown, 
p. 301. 



XX 



iflntroiJttction 



spiracy — the last of the many plots against Elizabeth 
and the commonwealth to which the captive Queen set 
her hand — and deals in swift succession with the cap- 
ture and punishment of the conspirators, the trial of Mary 
for complicity in their design, her conviction of blood- 
guiltiness, the hesitation of Elizabeth to give eiFect to the 
judgment thereupon pronounced, the eventual signing 
of the death-warrant, and the execution at Fotherin- 
gay Castle. The immediate motive of this tragic con- 
summation is provided, as has already been stated, 
through the agency of Mary Beaton — that one of the 
Queen's Maries who had been her constant companion 
during all her years of triumph and defeat, in Scotland 
and in England. Mary Beaton has never forgotten that 
she loved Chastelard, and has never forgiven the Queen 
for allowing him to go to his execution without an. ef- 
fort to save him. As the years pass by, the sharpness of 
her desire to avenge his death becomes dulled, or rather 
that desire becomes transformed into a sort of prophetic 
sense — voiced over and over again in the tragic crises of 
the history — that she shall never leave the side of her 
mistress until the consequences of that deed shall some- 
how recoil upon the doer, and cause the Queen to expiate 
with her own life the bloodshed of her old-time lover. 
This attitude of passive expectation is maintained by 
Mary Beaton until near the end, when judgment has been 
pronounced upon the Queen, and her hfe is hanging in 
the balance. Then the old vengeful instinct stirs once 
more, and the maid tips the scale against her mistress. 
The means of vengeance are in her possession, for she has 
preserved for years a letter written in bitter mood by 



3|ntroDuction xxi 

Mary Stuart to Elizabeth and given to the maid to destroy 
— a letter recounting in the guise of friendly warning cer- 
tain unspeakable allegations against Elizabeth's character 
gathered from the Countess of Shrewsbury. This letter 
(well known to historians as one of the documents in 
the case) is now despatched to Elizabeth, who is in- 
flamed to fury upon reading it, and at once signs the 
death-warrant. 

This invention, so richly justified by the artistic unity 
which it bestows upon the trilogy taken as a whole, is 
one of-the very few departures that Swinburne has made 
from exact historical truth in dealing with the history of 
the Queen of Scots. He has not been guilty, he says, 
of ♦* any conscious violation of historical chronology, 
except — to the best of my recollection — in two in- 
stances : the date of Mary's second marriage, and the 
circumstances of her last interview with John Knox. 
I held it as allowable to anticipate by two years the 
event of Damley's nuptials, or in other words to post- 
pone for two years the event of Chastelard's execution, 
as to compile or condense into one dramatic scene the 
details of more than one conversation recorded by Knox 
between Mary and himself" One has only to read 
Swinburne's memoir of Mary Stuart in the Encyclopae- 
dia Britannica to realize with what scrupulous care he 
has dramatized the facts of her career. The very fact 
that he should have been chosen as the man best fitted 
to prepare that memoir affords convincing evidence of 
the thoroughness of the historical scholarship which he 
brought to the writing of his greatest dramatic work. 

The character of Mary Stuart has been, and will con- 



xxii 3|ntroliuction 

tinue to be, one of the insoluble problems of history. 
The almost endless controversies of which it has been 
the subject are a natural consequence of the strong re- 
ligious, political, and personal partisanships to which 
she and her cause excited the men of her own time. 
And these controversies still range men into opposing 
parties through the persistence of the passions which 
they involve. The documentary evidence, moreover, 
upon which determination of the points at issue must 
be founded, is hopelessly entangled in a mesh of forgery 
and fabrication and falsehood. Again, many matters 
of importance rest upon circumstantial evidence alone, 
for the dark statecraft of those days pursued devious 
ways, and was careful to conceal its tracks, as far as it 
was humanly possible so to do. In such a case the in- 
sight of the poet may well prove a safer reliance than 
the industry of the historian ; at all events, the Mary 
Stuart that Swinburne has constructed for us is given 
the consistency of a product of the creative imagina- 
tion, and this without doing any serious violence to the 
historical record. As an elaborate piece of portraiture 
it is artistically convincing, and at the same time it is 
based in every feature upon what is at least a reason- 
able interpretation of the disputed conditions. 

Swinburne's conception of his heroine may best be 
illustrated by a few quotations from the trilogy. It is 
John Knox who thus describes her : 

** Her soul 
Is as a flame of fire, insatiable, 
And subtle as thin water ; with her craft 
Is passion mingled so inseparably 



3(|ntrotiuction xxiii 

That each gets strength from other, her swift wit 

By passion being enkindled and made hot, 

And by her wit her keen and passionate heart 

So tempered that it burn itself not out, 

Consuming to no end." Bothivell^ Act i, Scene 2. 

The Queen herself, in a scene with Bothwell, is 
moved by an approaching storm to this revealing utter- 
ance : 

** I never loved the windless weather, nor 
The dead face of the water in the sun j 
I had rather the live wave leapt under me, 
• And fits of foam struck light on the dark air, 
And the sea's kiss were keen upon my lip 
And bold as love's and bitter ; then my soul 
Is a wave too that springs against the light 
And beats and bursts with one great strain of joy 
As the sea breaking. You said well, this light 
Is like shed blood spilt here by drops and there 
That overflows the red brims of the cloud 
And stains the moving water : yet the waves 
Pass, and the split light of the broken sun 
Rests not upon them but a minute's space j 
No longer should a deed, methinks, once done 
Endure upon the life of memory 
To stain the days thereafter with remorse 
And mar the better seasons." 

Bothivellj Act n, Scene 6. 

In the following words, placed upon the lips of Sir 
Drew Drury, one of the nobler of her enemies, we 
may clearly read Swinburne's own estimate of Mary 
Stuart's character : 

" Nay, myself 
Were fain to see this coil wound up, and her 
Removed that makes it : yet such things will pluck 
Hard at men's hearts that think on them, and move 



xxiv Klntrotittctton 

Compassion that such long strange years should find 

So strange an end : nor shall men ever say 

But she was born right royal ; full of sins, 

It may be, and by circumstance or choice 

Dyed and defaced with bloody stains and black, 

Unmerciful, unfaithful, but of heart 

So fiery high, so swift of spirit and clear, 

In extreme danger and pain so lifted up, 

So of all violent things inviolable, 

So large of courage, so superb of soul, 

So sheathed with iron mind invincible 

And arms unbreached of fire-proof constancy — 

By shame not shaken, fear or force or death. 

Change, or all confluence of calamities — 

And so at her worst need beloved, and still 

Naked of help and honour when she seemed. 

As other women would be, and of hope 

Stripped, still so of herself adorable 

By minds not always all ignobly mad 

Nor all made poisonous with false grain of faith, 

She shall be a world's wonder to all time, 

A deadly glory watched of marvelling men 

Not without praise, not without noble tears. 

And if without what she would never have 

Who had it never, pity — yet from none 

Quite without reverence and some kind of love 

For that which was so royal." 

Mary Stuarty Act iv, Scene a. 

This conception of Mary's character is reinforced 
by many passages in Swinburne's Britannic a memoir, 
and in his Note on the Character of Mary ^een of 
Scots, both printed in the volume of prose Miscellanies. 
Himself a partisan of the Queen in respect of those traits 
which are admirable in themselves wherever found, her 
defender as far as consistency with the belief that her 
crimes were great and her doom righteous permits, he 



31ntrotJuccion xxv 

has only scorn for those who defend her at the expense of 
her intelligence and courage. ** To vindicate her from 
the imputations of her vindicators ** is his purpose, im- 
plicit in the trilogy, clearly expressed in the vigorous prose 
which serves the poem by way of appendix. Whatever 
opinion a rational mind may form concerning the Queen 
of Scots, it cannot possibly be such an opinion as her 
more zealous champions entertain, as embodied in the 
theorem " that a woman whose intelligence was below 
the average level of imbecility, and whose courage was 
belovs^the average level of a cowatd's, should have suc- 
ceeded throughout the whole course of a singularly restless 
and adventurous career in imposing herself upon the judg- 
ment of every man and every woman with whom she 
ever came into any sort or kind of contact, as a person 
of the most brilliant abilities and the most dauntless dar- 
ing.** And yet to some such position as this those are 
driven who contend that she had no complicity in the 
murder of Damley, that she was forced into the mar- 
riage with Bothwell by ** an unscrupulous oligarchy,** 
and that she was innocent of the plots to strike at the 
life of Elizabeth. Swinburne's final word upon the 
whole subject may be found in the following passages : 
<* For her own freedom of will and of way, of passion 
and of action, she cared much ; for her creed she cared 
something, for her country she cared less than nothing. ** 
" Considered from any possible point of view, the 
tragic story of her life in Scotland admits but of one 
interpretation which is not incompatible with the im- 
pression she left on all friends and all foes alike. And 
this interpretation is simply that she hated Darnley 



xxvi 3|ntroUttction 

with a passionate but justifiable hatred, and loved Both- 
well with a passionate but pardonable love. For the 
rest of her career I cannot but think that whatever 
was evil and ignoble in it was the work of education 
or of circumstance ; whatever was good and noble, the 
gift of nature or of God. * ' 

It is not likely that Swinburne's full-length por- 
traiture of the Queen of Scots, as exhibited in the trilogy- 
taken as a whole, will ever be rivalled. He has done 
the work once for all, with such subtlety of delineation, 
firmness of grasp, and breadth of historical outlook, as 
to discourage any future attempt to deal with the same 
subject in an imaginative way. Past attempts of this 
sort have been numerous, but the best of them by com- 
parison are fragmentary and inadequate. Scott, in The 
Abbot y dealt only with the episode of Lochleven Castle 
and its immediate consequences ; Alfieri, in Maria 
Stuarddy with the murder of Darnley alone, seeking to 
clear the Queen of complicity in that crime ; Schiller, 
in Maria Stuarty with the closing days of her life in 
Fotheringay Castle ; and Bjornson, in Maria Stuart i 
Skotland, with the period from the assassination of 
Rizzio to the marriage with Bothwell. These are the 
most important of the earlier works that have chosen 
Mary Stuart for imaginative treatment, but great as are 
the names attached to them, they sink into insigni- 
ficance when compared with the colossal production 
which is the crowning work of Swinburne's life. 

After the completion of Mary Stuarty Swinburne 
turned his attention to a subject already distinguished 
in English poetry by Byron's treatment, and pro- 



iflntrotiuccion xxvii 

duced (1885) the five-act tragedy of Marino Fa Hero, 
his most important dramatic work, aside from the tri- 
logy above described. In choosing this subject he was 
perhaps to some extent actuated by the impulse which 
impelled Turner to bestow upon the National Gallery 
at London two of his finest works, upon the condition 
that they should be hung with two of the masterpieces 
of Claude Lorraine, that all the world might note how 
the English artist excelled the French in his own spe- 
cial domain. Swinburne's work as easily excels that 
of Byron in all points except possibly that of fitness 
for stage presentation, and not much may be claimed 
for either play upon that score. Byron was at his 
weakest in blank verse and in the construction of trag- 
edy, while in these directions Swinburne puts forth his 
greatest strength. Since the subject of this tragedy has 
the additional advantage of engaging the republican 
sympathy and impassioned ardor in the worship of 
freedom which color and season all of Swinburne's 
work, it is not strange that his Marino Faliero should 
be an entirely noble and inspiring creation. 

The historical facts have been closely followed. 
The insult to the young and fair wife of the Doge, 
the trivial sentence passed upon the offender, the un- 
governable passion of Faliero when he learns of this, 
the proffered and accepted leadership in the popular 
conspiracy and the arrest of those implicated, and the 
final judgment pronounced upon the noble traitor, suc- 
cessively claim the reader's attention. That which is 
characteristic of Swinburne's presentation, and which, 
in fact, affords the keynote of his conception, is the 



xxviii 31«troDuction 

attitude of Faliero when reason resumes its sway over 
his mind, and when calm reflection justifies with him 
the course which passion has initiated. The oppor- 
tunity for revenge being offered him at the very hour 
when he has learned how lightly the patrician tribunal 
holds the insult done him, he eagerly grasps it, re- 
gardless of the future ; but afterwards, when the per- 
sonal motives which prompt him have lost their force 
with the subsidence of his anger, he is held to his 
course by a vivid realization of the sufferings of the 
Venetian people at the hands of a corrupt and unscru- 
pulous oligarchy. The mere traitor that an hour's 
passion has made of him becomes merged in the lib- 
erator of the republic from its oppressors. To effect 
this transition in such a way as to attach the sympathy 
of the reader to Faliero' s fortunes at the last was the 
most difficult and delicate part of the poet's task. 
Without discussing the historical justice of this con- 
ception, it must be admitted that its artistic success is 
brilliant. In the scene which precedes the failure of 
the conspiracy, as well as in the judgment scene and 
that which follows it, the person of Faliero becomes 
transfigured, and the divine halo of the deliverer in- 
vests him with its radiance. 

The closing scenes rise to a poetic height that even 
Swinburne does not often reach. These are the words 
of Faliero to his nephew, keeping watch with him 
through the night that precedes the projected uprising : 

** And this do thou 
Know likewise, and hold fast, that if to-day 
Dawn rise not, but the darkness drift us down, 
And leave our hopes as wrecks and waifs despised 



3(|ntroliuction xxix 

Of men that walk by daylight, not with us 

Shall faith decline from earth or justice end, 

Or freedom, which if dead should bid them die, 

Rot, though the works and very names of us, 

And all the fruit we looked for, nipped of winds 

And gnawn of worms, and all the stem that bore, 

And all the root, wax rotten. Here shall be 

Freedom, or never in this time-weary world 

Justice, nor ever shall the sunrise know 

A sight to match the morning, nor the sea 

Hear from the sound of living souls on earth, 

Free as her foam, and righteous as her tides, 

Just| equal, aweless, perfect, even as she, 

A word to match her music." Act iv. Scene I. 

This prophecy of the resurrection of Italy becomes 
even more explicit in the later scene in which Faliero, 
with the vision that comes to men in their dying hour, 
foretells the advent of Mazzini, of 

" The man 
Supreme of spirit, and perfect, and unlike 
Me : for the tongue that bids dark death arise. 
The hand that takes dead freedom by the hand 
And lifts up living, others these must be 
Than mine, and others than the world, I think, 
Shall bear till men wax worthier." Act v, Scene 2. 

Faliero' s last words are these : 

" Be not faint of heart : 
I go not as a base man goes to death. 
But great of hope : God cannot will that here 
Some day shall spring not freedom : nor perchance 
May we, long dead, not know it, who died of love 
For dreams that were and truths that were not. Come. 
Bring me but toward the landing whence my soul 
Sets sail, and bid God speed her forth to sea." 

Act V, Scene 2. 



XXX JIntroDttctton 

Thus ends a masterpiece of dramatic blank verse such 
as no other English poet of the nineteenth century — 
save only Shelley in The Cenci — has surpassed or even 
equalled. Compared with the chronicle-history of the 
Queen of Scots, it even has a certain advantage as poetry, 
because its action is not impeded by the necessity of 
faithfulness to the minutiae of the historical situation. 

Nor does any such impediment exist in the case of 
Locrine (1887), the dramatic successor of Marino Fali- 
ero. There is no tangibility whatever to the legendary 
material upon which this drama is based, unless we 
allow something of that quality to have been bestowed 
upon it by ComuSy or by the anonymous Elizabethan 
play once absurdly attributed to Shakespeare : 

** Dead fancy's ghost, not living fancy's wraith, 
Is now the storied sorrow that survives 
Faith in the record of these lifeless lives." 

Dedication^ viii. 

The story is that of Locrine, the mythical King of 
Britain, and his secret love for Estrild, his * * Scythian 
concubine." It is the dramatic situation of Rosamond 
over again, with the difference that the jealous queen, 
instead of privately doing away with her rival, gathers 
an army and makes war upon her unfaithful spouse. In 
the end, Locrine is slain, Estrild stabs herself, and their 
daughter Sabrina plunges into the Severn. The char- 
acter of this maiden dear to many English poets, this 

" Virgin, daughter of Locrine, 
Sprung from old Anchises' line," 

is delineated with loving tenderness, and hers is the 
figure that lingers longest in the memory. Locrine 



3|ntroDuction xxxi 

occupies a unique place among Swinburne's tragedies 
on account of its form. It is written, not in blank verse, 
but in a variety of rhymed pentameters. One scene 
is a succession of twelve sonnets, broken only by a pass- 
age of interwoven rhymes ; other scenes are in heroic 
couplets, and still others in ottava and terza rima. It is 
a task of curious interest to trace these various rhyming 
combinations through the drama, and perhaps no other 
work of Swinburne is as remarkable for its technical 
wizardry. 

Five^ears elapsed before Swinburne produced an- 
other play, and when The Sisters (1892) appeared, it 
proved surprisingly unlike any of its predecessors. It is 
a domestic drama of the early nineteenth century, en- 
acted in an English country-house. The hero is a youth- 
ful soldier just returned from Waterloo. The two 
sisters are in love with him, and when he has declared 
himself for one of them, the other poisons both him 
and her successful rival. There is a play within the 
play, for the entire fourth act is given up to an Italian 
dramatic interlude performed by the leading characters 
in the larger work. This miniature tragedy, which sup- 
plies the suggestion for the tragedy that is realized in the 
closing act of The Sisters, is written in the author's 
characteristic vein of heightened poetic diction ; the 
rest of the work which includes it is written in a simple 
and colloquial style which precludes the display of 
poetic power. The Sisters is more successful as a play 
than as a poem, for it exhibits the essentially dramatic 
instinct that grasps to the full the dramatic possibilities 
of each moment of the action, and that determines the 



xxxii 3(IntroDttction 

succession of events with clear sight of the coming cli- 
max. The author himself speaks of it as ** the only 
modern English play I know in which realism in the 
reproduction of natural dialogue and accuracy in the 
representation of natural intercourse between men and 
women of gentle birth and breeding have been found 
or made compatible with expression in genuine if simple 
blank verse." Nevertheless, The Sisters must be re- 
garded as the least significant of Swinburne's dramas, 
and as a production almost unworthy of his genius. 

Rosamund, Queen of the Lombards (1899), is the 
last in the series of Swinburne's tragedies. He speaks 
of it as based on ** a subject long since mishandled by 
an English dramatist of all but the highest rank, and 
one which in later days Alfieri had commemorated in 
a magnificent passage of a wholly unhistoric and some- 
what unsatisfactory play. ' ' The works here referred to 
are Middleton's The Witch and Alfieri' s Rosmunda, 
The Rosmunda of Giovanni Rucellai, a much earlier 
work, might have been added to this list. The histor- 
ical fi-amework of all these tragedies may most conven- 
iently be found in Gibbon, in whose pages we read how 
Rosamund, daughter of the Gepidae, espoused Alboin, 
the slayer of her father, how she was forced by her 
husband to drink wine from her father's skull, and how 
this founder of the Lombard kingdom fell by the hand 
of an assassin, whose deed was instigated by the treach- 
ery of the queen, taking thus a long- delayed vengeance 
for her father's death. It is a grim tale, and Swinburne 
has invested it with all the pity, terror, and tragic irony 
which it demands. The diction of this drama is marked 



iflntrouuttion xxxiii 

by severe restraint, which extends also, by implication 
at least, to the demeanor, to the very gesture, of the 
actors concerned. The brooding storm of passion is 
felt, rather than heard or seen, but the reader is not un- 
prepared for the supreme moment in which it breaks. 
The inevitable fate of both king and queen is so fore- 
shadowed that when it comes upon them in one swift 
last moment of the action, the spirit is not so much 
aroused as calmed, and echoes the words with which, 
as with the final chorus of a Greek tragedy, the out- 
come i*- characterized in this single verse : 

*' Let none make moan. This doom is none of man's." 

It is a far cry from the Rosamond of Swinburne's 
first volume to this Rosamund of his ripened years. 
Although the poet's outlook upon life has remained sub- 
stantially unchanged, and the leading ideas of his youth 
are the ideas to which he still gives expression, the 
passing years have by imperceptible degrees so trans- 
formed his style that an effective contrast may be made 
between his earlier and his later manner. Here speaks 
the Rosamond of 1861 : 

** Fear is a cushion for the feet of love, 
Painted with colours for his ease-taking ; 
Sweet red, and white with wasted blood, and blue 
Most flower-like, and the summer-spoused green 
And sea-betrothed soft purple and burnt black. 
All coloured forms of fear, omen, and change, 
Sick prophecy and rumours lame at heel. 
Anticipations and astrologies. 
Perilous inscription and recorded note. 
All these are covered in the skirt of love, 
And when he shakes it these are tumbled forth, 
Beaten and blown i' the dusty face of the air." Act i. 



xxxiv 31ntroliuction 

The Rosamund of 1899 yields the following pass- 
age : 

" Rosamund. Kiss me. Who knows how long the lord of life 
May spare us time for kissing ? Life and love 
Are less than change and death. 

Alho'vine. What ghosts are they ? 

So sweet thou never wast to me before. 

The woman that is God — the God that is 

Woman — the sovereign of the soul of man, 

Our fathers' Freia, Venus crowned in Rome, 

Has lent my love her girdle ; but her lips 

Have robbed the red rose of its heart, and left 

No glory for the flower beyond all flowers 

To bid the spring be glad of." Act in. 

Here is a contrast indeed ! The exuberance, the 
color, the overwrought imagery, the verbal affluence, 
the Shakespearean diction, of the earlier work have 
vanished, and in their place we have sheer simplicity of 
vocabulary, passion intimated rather than expressed, 
imagery reduced to bare metaphor, and a diction well- 
nigh shorn of all mannerisms. Noting the vocabulary 
alone, the later passage offers only half as many words 
of more than one syllable as are found in the earlier 
extract. Here is a still more striking example of the 
reduction of vocabulary to its lowest terms : 

" I take thine oath. I bid not thee take heed 
That I or thou or each of us at once, 
Couldst thou play false, may die : I bid thee think 
Thy bride will die, shamed. Swear me not again 
She shall not : all our trust is set on thee. 
What eyes and ears are keen about us here 
Thou knowest not. Love, my love and thine for her. 
Shall deafen and shall blind them." Act il. 



3!ntroDttction xxxv 

In this passage there are seventy-four words, and all 
but three of them are monosyllables. Swinburne has 
often been charged with a lack of restraint ; the charge 
is fairly justified by some of his earlier poems, but it 
assuredly does not lie against the dramatic work of his 
maturer years. Rosamund exemplifies the very extreme 
of poetic restraint. 

The blank verse in which Swinburne's tragedies 
(with the exception of Locrini) are cast is as distinct- 
ively his own as it is possible for such verse to be. A 
dramatic poet so steeped in the work of his predecessors 
could hardly escape an occasional echo, and the Eliza- 
bethan influence is manifest (although in ever-decreas- 
ing degree) throughout his work. In his immature 
first volume, that influence produces such lines as these: 

" We are so more than poor, 
The dear' St of all our spoil would profit you 
Less than mere losing j so most more than weak 
It were but shame for one to smite us, who 
Could but weep louder. ' ' 

The Siueen Mother^ Act i, Scene I. 

This is nothing less than Shakespearean mimicry, and 
other passages may be found that catch the very trick 
of Fletcher or of Marlowe. Scattered through the 
Mary Stuart trilogy we may find countless examples 
of phrases turned in the Elizabethan manner, as well 
as lines that bring to mind such modern poets as Shel- 
ley and Browning. Nevertheless, the style of the poet 
taken as a whole is individual, and, whatever doubt 
one might entertain concerning the authorship of a sin- 
gle line or a brief extract, one could have no doubt 



xxxvi 31tttroiJttction 

whatever of a whole page, any more than one could 
be puzzled by a page of Browning or of Tenny- 
son. And this dramatic style, which reaches its high- 
est level in Bothwell and Mary Stuart and Marino 
FalierOy although often too involved and elliptical to 
make the easiest of reading, has a beauty of cadence, 
a gravity of movement, and a nobility of diction that 
may be matched only in the work of the greater Eng- 
lish poets. 

Dramatic poetry must be judged according to the 
degree of its excellence in the three elements of style, 
characterization, and construction. Of the style of 
Swinburne* s tragedies something has just been said, 
and the foregoing discussion of the separate works has 
brought forward the most conspicuous examples of his 
skill in portraiture. His delineation of Mary Stuart is 
a masterpiece of subtle penetration into the inmost 
recesses of a complex nature, and his conception of the 
historical figures by which hers is surrounded affords 
further evidence of his insight into character. His 
constructive powers, while perhaps most clearly ex- 
hibited in the dramas whose subject-matter gave him 
a comparatively free hand, were put to their severest 
test in the historical trilogy, and there achieved their 
most signal triumph. To give artistic symmetry to 
each of the separate sections of that work, and ar- 
tistic unity to the whole, while keeping the historical 
facts — even of the minuter sort — all the time strictly 
in view, was a task to daunt the most courageous, and 
its successful performance must be reckoned among the 
most remarkable feats in our dramatic literature. 



3|ntroDuction xxxvii 

In the Dedicatory Epistle which prefaces his col- 
lected poems, and from which numerous quotations 
have already been made in the present Introduction, 
Swinburne says this of his plays as a whole : *' Charles 
Lamb, as I need not remind you, wrote for antiquity: 
nor need you be assured that when I write plays it is 
with a view to their being acted at the Globe, the 
Red Bull, or the Black Friars. ' * It is certain that they 
are not likely to be acted elsewhere, under the condi- 
tions at present surrounding the English-speaking stage, 
although a private performance of Locrine was given 
in London a few years ago, and other tentative and 
experimental performances may occasionally be brought 
about. It is interesting to inquire why these works, 
and other works of their class, should not be put upon 
the stage. To this inquiry there are two widely differ- 
ent answers. The simplest of them, while a super- 
ficial answer, begging the question at issue, is found 
satisfying to many writers upon the drama. It is that 
these works are unfitted for the stage. This is true, 
no doubt ; nevertheless, the answer which the ques- 
tion demands must be given from a very different point 
of view, and should inform us that the stage — the 
English stage — has unfitted itself for the production 
of these plays, or of any plays having a serious literary 
value. In other words, the stage, turning away from 
its great early tradition, and becoming more and more 
a vehicle of mere entertainment, less and less a medium 
for the investment of exalted ideals with the trappings 
of actuality, has during the last century done its best to 
divorce itself from literature, with a degree of success 



xxxviii 3(|ntroiJuction 

of which its present pitiable estate affords convincing 
evidence. English dramatic poets, on the other hand, 
finding themselves unwelcome in the playhouse, have 
ceased to heed its requirements, and have written their 
plays with an eye to the satisfaction of the reader alone. 
There has thus appeared in English poetry the singu- 
lar phenomenon of the closet drama — a species of 
composition which does not exist in any other modern 
literature to anything like the same extent. For several 
generations now the playhouse and the poet have been 
completely at odds, with the curious result that our 
acting plays are devoid of literary quality, while the 
closet drama absorbs all the energies of the men to 
whom we should rightly look for the rehabilitation of 
the theatre. Swinburne, writing of his own Marino 
FalierOy shows a clear comprehension of the contrast 
between past and present conditions, when he says 
that this work, ** hopelessly impossible as it is from 
the point of view of modern stagecraft, could hardly 
have been found too untheatrical, too utterly given 
over to thought without action, by the audiences which 
endured and applauded the magnificent monotony of 
Chapman's eloquence — the fervent and inexhaustible 
declamation which was offered and accepted as a sub- 
stitute for study of character and interest of action 
when his two finest plays, if plays they can be called, 
found favour with an incredibly intelligent and an incon- 
ceivably tolerant audience.'* This comparison is pos- 
sibly a little forced, and is not altogether ingenuous, for 
Chapman's plays were hardly as successful as Swin- 
burne would have us believe, and what success they 



3|ntroDttCtion xxxix 

had must be attributed in large measure to the melo- 
dramatic action which offsets their copious philosophiz- 
ing. But as a protest against the narrowness of ** mod- 
ern stagecraft,*' the plea at least deserves a respectful 
hearing. 

We must admit the closet drama to be a fact in the 
development of modern English literature, but we may 
doubt the wisdom of calling it a *« heresy,'* as Pro- 
fessor Brander Matthews does, or of saying with him 
that ** by the ill-advised action of certain English poets 
the Ereach between the stage and the men-of-letters 
was made to appear wider than it ought to have been." 
An action could not be ill-advised that was absolutely 
necessary if the dignity of a great literary form was to 
be preserved, and the "unactable dramatic poems'* 
of Tennyson and Browning and Swinburne, besides 
being a rich present contribution to literature, may 
quite possibly at some future time come to be regarded 
as having exerted a powerful indirect influence upon 
the restoration of the English stage to its once forfeited 
estate. These men may then be honored for having 
kept the faith, instead of being censured, as they now 
are, for refusing to make terms with a narrow and 
degraded dramaturgy. 

The chief tendency of the modern acting drama has 
been toward the development of a refined technique, 
and no one will deny that this is a praiseworthy aim. 
But technique cannot provide the substance of any art, 
and a play may be a technical masterpiece, yet fail 
lamentably in its ultimate purpose. The playwright 
bent upon technique is in danger of sacrificing beauty 



xl 3(|ntroUuction 

and truth and vitality to the requirements of mere 
stagecraft. Most modern dramatists have succumbed 
in some degree to this danger, and English dramatists 
more than others. Our average play-goer, fed all his 
life upon dramatic husks, finds himself at a loss in the 
presence of serious drama ; his faculties have become 
atrophied and his senses dulled. The only play that 
gives him any pleasure is the one in which something 
new (and, by preference, something unexpected) 
happens at every moment, the play which tickles his 
palate as with condiments, the play which makes no 
demands upon the reflective side of his nature. His is 
the verdict by which the closet drama is condemned, 
and its advocates are fairly warranted in appealing to 
the judgment of a higher tribunal. 

If we seek for the exact reason why such plays as 
these of Swinburne may not hope to meet with favor 
in the actual playhouse, it will be found in the fact 
that they have too much declamation and too little 
action for the taste of the play-goer. But for Eliza- 
bethan audiences, as Swinburne has pointed out, long 
speeches were no hindrance to enjoyment, and a sim- 
ilar remark may be made of the audiences for whom 
Corneille and Racine wrote plays in the great age of 
the French theatre. And it is surely something more 
than tolerant endurance that a modern French audience 
accords to these classics, or a modern German audience 
accords to Torquato Tasso and Nathan der Weise. If 
our own stage had not lost almost all contact with liter- 
ature, it would make a much larger and more intelli- 
gent use of our classics than it now does, and might 



3lntrotittction xii 

even unearth many a treasure now buried in the libra- 
ries and known only to the student of literature. 

The upshot of these considerations seems to be that 
our stage, being controlled by a low, or at least a lim- 
ited, sort of dramatic intelligence, is primarily respon- 
sible for the existence of the closet drama. And yet 
the great popularity of such plays as Knowles*s Fir- 
ginius and Bulwer's Richelieu shows that the poetic 
form offers no insuperable barrier to public favor, while 
the more modest but still distinctly pronounced success 
of Browning's A Blot in the ^Scutcheon and Tenny- 
son's Be eke t gives evidence that the highest poetic 
genius may sometimes be something more than tolerated 
by our theatre-going audiences. The success with 
which such minor dramas as Milman's Fazio and Tal- 
fourd's Ion have occasionally been presented provides 
an encouraging subject for reflection, and the contem- 
porary applause which has greeted the poetic dramas 
of Stephen Phillips is an augury of excellent omen. If 
these plays have found a public from time to time, why 
may we not expect that a public of some sort may yet 
be found for Shelley's The Cenci and Landor's Count 
Julian and Browning's Strafford and Tennyson's 
Harold — even for Swinburne's Mary Stuart and 
Marino Faliero ? At all events, the works named in 
this paragraph are sufficient to make clear the fact that 
there is no hard and fast line between the drama of the 
stage and the drama of the closet, that it is possible to 
pass by nearly insensible gradations from the most 
obviously actable of plays to those that appear most 
remote from the practical requirements of the playhouse. 



xlii 3|ntroDttction 

Nor does it seem altogether unreasonable to hope that 
English audiences may gradually acquire enough of the 
seriousness and artistic conscience of German and 
French audiences to bring more and more of the 
dramas now neglected within the margin of actability, 
and to annex to the empire of the stage much of that 
province of dramatic literature which is at present ex- 
plored by readers alone. When that change of heart 
is experienced, the drama may once more occupy its 
rightful position in English literature, and again become 
— what it has never ceased to be in the literature of 
Continental Europe — a manifestation of the deepest 
consciousness of the race, and an embodiment of its 
highest idealism. 

W. M. Payne. 






yXOicrcra TeXcLO-Oo)' Tov<}>€LX6fievov 
7rpd(r(Tova-a St/oy ftey' dvrct* 
dvTL 8k TrXriyrji; <fiOVLa<s <f>oviav 
TrXrjyrjv Tiviroi' Spacravrt Tra^eti/, 
rpiyipoiv fivOos rdSe (fnnvu. 

iEscH. Cho. 309-315 



SOURCES 

A considerable portion of this drama consists of fairly close pal 
phrase from the contemporary sources of the history of Mary Stuan 
The more significant passages of this character are indicated in th; 
Notes. The greater part of the material that Swinburne has thi' 
used may be found in the State Trials, in LabanoflF's Recueil dt 
Lettres, Instructions^ et Memoires de Marie Stuart ^ Reine d* Ecossi 
and in the Letter Book of Sir Amias Paulet. 



J 



I DEDICATE THIS PLAY, 

NO LONGER, AS THE FIRST PART OF THE TRILOGY 

WHICH IT COMPLETES WAS DEDICATED, 

TO THE GREATEST EXILE, BUT SIMPLY 

TO THE GREATEST MAN OF FRANCE I 

TO THE CHIEF OF LIVING POETS I 

TO THE FIRST DRAMATIST OF HIS AGE I 

TO MY BELOVED AND REVERED MASTER 

VICTOR HUGO. 



DRAMATIS PERSONS. 



Mary Stuart. 

Mary Beaton. 

Queen Elizabeth. 

Barbara Mowbray. 

Lord Burghley. 

Sir Francis Walsingham. 

William Davison. 

Robert Dudley, Earl of Leicester. 

George Talbot, Earl of Shrewsbury. 

Earl of Kent. 

Henry Carey, Lord Hunsdon. 

Sir Christopher Hatton. 

Sir Thomas Bromley, Lord Chancellor. 

POPHAM, Attorney-General. 

Egerton, Solicitor-General. 

Gawdy, 77;e ^een\ Sergeant. 

Sir Amyas Paulet. 

Sir Drew Drury. 

Sir Thomas Gorges. 

Sir William Wade. 

Sir Andrew Melville. 

Robert Beale, Clerk of the Council. 

Curle and Nau, Secretaries to the Siueen of Scots. 

GORION, her Apothecary. 

Father John Ballard, 

Anthony Babington, 

Chidiock Tichborne, 

John Savage, 

Charles Tilney, 

Edward Abington, 

Thomas Salisbury, 

Robert Barnwell, 

Thomas Phillipps, Secretary to Walsingham. 

M. DE Chateauneuf. 

M. DE Bellievre. 



■ Conspirators^ 



Commissioners^ Privy Councillors^ Sheriffs^ Citixens^ Officers^ 
and Attendants. 

Time — From August 14, 1586, to February 18, 1587. 



ACT I 
ANTHONY BABINGTON 



ACT I. 

Scene I. — Babington's Lodging: a veiled picture 
on the wall. 

Enter Babington, Tichborne, Tilney, Abington, 
Salisbury f and Barnwell, 

Babjngton, Welcome, good friends, and wel- 
come this good day 
That casts out hope and brings in certainty 
To turn raw spring to summer. Now not long 
The flower that crowns the front of all our faiths 
Shall bleach to death in prison ; now the trust 5 
That took the night with fire as of a star 
Grows red and broad as sunrise in our sight 
Who held it dear and desperate once, now sure, 
But not more dear, being surer. In my hand 
I hold this England and her brood, and all 10 

That time out of the chance of all her fate 
Makes hopeful or makes fearful : days and years. 
Triumphs and changes bred for praise or shame 
From the unborn womb of these unknown, are 

ours 
That stand yet noteless here ; ours even as God's 15 
Who puts them in our hand as his, to wield 
And shape to service godlike. None of you 



8 ^ar^ g)tttart [act i. 

But this day strikes out of the scroll of death 
And writes apart immortal ; what we would, 
That have we ; what our fathers, brethren, peers, 
Bled and beheld not, died and might not win, 
That may we see, touch, handle, hold it fast. 
May take to bind our brows with. By my life, 
I think none ever had such hap alive 
As ours upon whose plighted lives are set 
The whole good hap and evil of the state 
And of the Church of God and world of men 
And fortune of all crowns and creeds that hang 
Now on the creed and crown of this our land. 
To bring forth fruit to our resolve, and bear 
What sons to time it please us ; whose mere will 
Is father of the future. 

Tilney, Have you said ? 

Bab, I cannot say too much of so much good. 

Til. Say nothing then a little, and hear one 
while : 
Your talk struts high and swaggers loud for joy, 
And safely may perchance, or may not, here ; 
But why to-day we know not. 

Bab. No, I swear. 

Ye know not yet, no man of us but one. 
No man on earth ; one woman knows, and I, 
I that best know her the best begot of man 
And noblest; no king born so kingly-souled, 
Nor served of such brave servants. 



Scene L] ^ar^ ^tUatt 9 

Tichborne, What, as we ? 

Bah. Is there one vein in one of all our hearts 
That is not blown aflame as fire with air 
With even the thought to serve her ? and, by 

God, 45 

They that would serve had need be bolder found 
Than common kings find servants. 

Salisbury, Well, your cause ? 

What need or hope has this day's heat brought 

- forth 
To blow such fire up in you ? 

Bab. Hark you, sirs ; 

The time is come, ere I shall speak of this, 5® 
To set again the seal on our past oaths 
And bind their trothplight faster than it is 
With one more witness ; not for shameful doubt. 
But love and perfect honour. Gentlemen, 
Whose souls are brethren sealed and sworn to 

mine, 55 

Friends that have taken on your hearts and hands 
The selfsame work and weight of deed as I, 
Look on this picture ; from its face to-day 
Thus I pluck off the mufiled mask, and bare 
Its likeness and our purpose. Ay, look here; 60 
None of these faces but are friends of each, 
None of these lips unsworn to all the rest. 
None of these hands unplighted. Know ye not 
What these have bound their souls to ? and my- 
self. 



10 ^ari^ Stuart [acti. 

I that stand midmost painted here of all, 
Have I not right to wear of all this ring 
The topmost flower of danger ? Who but I 
Should crown and close this goodly circle up 
Of friends I call my followers ? There ye stand, 
Fashioned all five in likeness of mere life, 
Just your own shapes, even all the man but 

speech. 
As in a speckless mirror; Tichborne, thou, 
My nearest heart and brother next in deed. 
Then Abington, there Salisbury, Tilney there. 
And Barnwell, with the brave bright Irish eye 
That burns with red remembrance of the blood 
Seen drenching those green fields turned brown 

and grey 
Where fire can burn not faith out, nor the sword 
That hews the boughs off lop the root there set 
To spread in spite of axes. Friends, take heed j 
These are not met for nothing here in show 
Nor for poor pride set forth and boastful heart 
To make dumb brag of the undone deed, and 

wear 
The ghost and mockery of a crown unearned 
Before their hands have wrought it for their heads 
Out of a golden danger, glorious doubt. 
An act incomparable, by all time's mouths 
To be more blessed and cursed than all deeds 

done 



Scene I.] ^Bt^ ^tUatC 11 

In this swift fiery world of ours, that drives 
On such hot wheels toward evil goals or good, 90 
And desperate each as other; but that each. 
Seeing here himself and knowing why here, 

may set 
His whole heart's might on the instant work, 

and hence 
Pass as a man rechristened, bathed anew 
And swordlike tempered from the touch that turns 95 
Dull iron to the two-edged fang of steel 
Made keen as fire by water ; so, I say. 
Let this dead likeness of you wrought with hands 
Whereof ye wist not, working for mine end 
Even as ye gave them work, unwittingly, 100 

Quicken with life your vows and purposes 
To rid the beast that troubles all the world 
Out of men's sight and God's. Are ye not sworn 
Or stand not ready girt at perilous need 
To strike under the cloth of state itself >oS 

The very heart we hunt for ? 

Tich, Let not then 

Too high a noise of hound and horn give note 
How hot the hunt is on it, and ere we shoot 
Startle the royal quarry j lest your cry 
Give tongue too loud on such a trail, and we no 
More piteously be rent of our own hounds 
Than he that went forth huntsman too, and came 
To play the hart he hunted. 



12 ^ar^ Stuart [acti. 

Bab. Ay, but, see, 

Your apish poet*s-likeness holds not here. 
If he that fed his hounds on his changed flesh i 
Was charmed out of a man and bayed to death 
But through pure anger of a perfect maid ; 
For she that should of huntsmen turn us harts 
Is Dian but in mouths of her own knaves. 
And in paid eyes hath only godhead on i 

And light to dazzle none but them to death. 
Yet I durst well abide her, and proclaim 
As goddess-like as maiden. 

Barnwell. Why, myself 

Was late at court in presence, and her eyes 
Fixed some while on me full in face ; yet, 'faith, i 
I felt for that no lightning in my blood 
Nor blast in mine as of the sun at noon 
To blind their balls with godhead ; no, ye see, 
I walk yet well enough. 

Ahington. She gazed at you ? 

Barn. Yes, 'faith ; yea, surely ; take a Puritan 

oath I 

To seal my faith for Catholic. What, God help. 

Are not mine eyes yet whole then ? am I blind 

Or maimed or scorched, and know not ? by my 

head, 
I find it sit yet none the worse for fear 
To be so thunder-blasted. 

Ahing. Hear you, sirs ? i 



Scene I. ] ^WC^ ^tmXt 1 3 

Tich. I was not fain to hear it. 
Barn, Which was he 

Spake of one changed into a hart ? by God, 
There be some hearts here need no charm, I 

think, 
To turn them hares of hunters ; or if deer, 
Not harts but hinds, and rascal. 

Bab, Peace, man, peace ! 140 

Let not at least this noble cry of hounds 
FlasK fangs against each other. See what verse 
I bade write under on the picture here : 
These are my comrades^ whom the periVs self 
Draws to it ; how say you ? will not all in the 

end 145 

Prove fellows to me ? how should one fall off 
Whom danger lures and scares not ? Tush, take 

hands ; 
It was to keep them fast in all time's sight 
I bade my painter set you here, and me 
Your loving captain ; gave him sight of each 150 
And order of us all in amity. 
And if this yet not shame you, or your hearts 
Be set as boys' on wrangling, yet, behold, 
I pluck as from my heart this witness forth 

Taking out a letter. 
To what a work we are bound to, even her hand 155 
Whom we must bring from bondage, and again 
Be brought of her to honour. This is she, 



14 span? Stuart [act i. 

Mary the queen, sealed of herself and signed 
As mine assured good friend for ever. Now, 
Am I more worth or Ballard ? 

Til. He it was i 

Bade get her hand and seal to allow of all 
That should be practised; he is wise. 

Bab. Ay, wise ! 

He was in peril too, he said, God wot. 
And must have surety of her, he ; but I, 
'T is I that have it, and her heart and trust, i 
See all here else, her trust and her good love 
Who knows mine own heart of mine own hand 

writ 
And sent her for assurance. 

Sal, This we know; 

What we would yet have certified of you 
Is her own heart sent back, you say, for yours, i 

Bab, I say ? not I, but proof says here, cries 
out 
Her perfect will and purpose. Look you, first 
She writes me what good comfort hath she had 
To know by letter mine estate, and thus 
Reknit the bond of our intelligence, i 

As grief was hers to live without the same 
This great while past ; then lovingly commends 
In me her own desire to avert betimes 
Our enemies' counsel to root out our faith 
With ruin of us all ; for so she hath shown i 



Scene I.] ^WCl^ ^tUUVt 15 

All Catholic princes what long since they have 

wrought 
Against the king of Spain j and all this while 
The Catholics naked here to all misuse 
Fall ofF in numbered force, in means and power, 
And if we look not to it shall soon lack strength 185 
To rise and take that hope or help by the hand 
Which time shall offer them ; and see for this 
What heart is hers ! she bids you know of me 
Thou^ she were no part of this cause, who 

holds 
Worthless her own weighed with the general 

weal, 190 

She will be still most willing to this end 
To employ therein her life and all she hath 
Or in this world may look for. 

Tich. This rings well; 

But by what present mean prepared doth hers 
Confirm your counsel ? or what way set forth 195 
So to prevent our enemies with good speed 
That at the goal we find them not, and there 
Fall as men broken ? 

Bab. Nay, what think you, man, 

Or what esteem of her, that hope should lack 
Herein her counsel ? hath she not been found 200 
Most wary still, clear-spirited, bright of wit, 
Keen as a sword's edge, as a bird's eye swift, 
Man-hearted ever ? First, for crown and base 



1 6 ^ar^ Stuart [acti. 

Of all this enterprise, she bids me here 
Examine with good heed of good event 
What power of horse and foot among us all 
We may well muster, and in every shire 
Choose out what captain for them, if we lack 
For the main host a general ; — as indeed 
Myself being bound to bring her out of bonds ; 
Or here with you cut off the heretic queen 
Could take not this on me ; — what havens, 

towns. 
What ports to north and west and south, may we 
Assure ourselves to hold in certain hand 
For entrance and receipt of help from France, ; 
From Spain, or the Low Countries; in what 

place 
Draw our main head together ; for how long 
Raise for this threefold force of foreign friends 
Wage and munition, or what harbours choose 
For these to land ; or what provision crave : 
Of coin at need or armour; by what means 
The six her friends deliberate to proceed ; 
And last the manner how to get her forth 
From this last hold wherein she newly lies : 
These heads hath she set down, and bids me 

take ; 

Of all seven points counsel and common care 
With as few friends as may be of the chief 
Ranged on our part for actors ; and thereon 



Scene!.] ^at^ ^CUatt 17 

Of all devised with diligent speed despatch 
Word to the ambassador of Spain in France, 230 
Who to the experience past of all the estate 
Here on this side aforetime that he hath 
Shall join goodwill to serve us. 

TiL Ay, no more ? 

Of us no more I mean, who being most near 
To the English queen our natural mistress born 235 
Take on our hands, her household pensioners', 
The stain and chiefest peril of her blood 
Shed by close violence under trust ; no word, 
No care shown further of our enterprise 
That flowers to fruit for her sake ? 

Bab, Fear not that ; 240 

Abide till we draw thither — ay — she bids 
Get first assurance of such help to come. 
And take thereafter, what before were vain. 
Swift order to provide arms, horses, coin. 
Wherewith to march at word from every shire 245 
Given by the chief; and save these principals 
Let no man's knowledge less in place partake 
The privy ground we move on, but set forth 
For entertainment of the meaner ear 
We do but fortify us against the plot 250 

Laid of the Puritan part in all this realm 
That have their general force now drawn to head 
In the Low Countries, whence being home re- 
turned 



1 8 ^ar^ Stuart [acti. 

They think to spoil us utterly, and usurp 
Not from her only and all else lawful heirs 
The kingly power, but from their queen that is 
(As we may let the bruit fly forth disguised) 
Wrest that which now she hath, if she for fear 
Take not their yoke upon her, and therefrom 
Catch like infection from plague-tainted air 
The purulence of their purity ; with which plea 
We so may stablish our confederacies 
As wrought but for defence of lands, lives, goods, 
From them that would cut oflFour faith and these ; 
No word writ straight or given directly forth 
Against the queen, but rather showing our will 
Firm to maintain her and her lineal heirs, 
Afyself (she saith) not named. Ha, gallant souls. 
Hath our queen's craft no savour of sweet wit, 
No brain to help her heart with ? 

Tich. But our end — 

No word of this yet ? 

Bab, And a good word, here. 

And worth our note, good friend ; being thus 

prepared. 
Time then shall be to set our hands on work 
And straight thereon take order that she may 
Be suddenly transported out of guard. 
Not tarrying till our foreign force come in, 
Which then must make the hotter haste ; and 

seeing 



Scene I] ^Pat^ ^tUait I9 

We can make no day sure for our design 

Nor certain hour appointed when she might 

Find other friends at hand on spur of the act 280 

To take her forth of prison, ye should have 

About you always, or in court at least. 

Scouts furnished well with horses of good speed 

To bear the tiding to her and them whose charge 

Shall be to bring her out of bonds, that these 285 

May be about her ere her keeper have word 

What deed is freshly done; in any case. 

Ere he can make him strong within the house 

Or bear her forth of it : and need it were 

By divers ways to send forth two or three 290 

That one may pass if one be stayed ; nor this 

Should we forget, to assay in the hour of need 

To cut the common posts ofF; by this plot 

May we steer safe, and fall not miserably, 

As they that laboured heretofore herein, 295 

Through overhaste to stir upon this side 

Ere surety make us strong of strangers' aid. 

And if at first we bring her forth of bonds, 

Be well assured, she bids us — as I think 

She doubts not me that I should let this slip, 300 

Forget so main a matter — well assured 

To set her in the heart of some strong host. 

Or strength of some good hold, where she may 

stay 
Till we be mustered and the ally drawn in ; 



20 ^ar^ ^tuart [act i. 

For should the queen, being scatheless of us yet 
As we unready, fall upon her flight, 
The bird untimely fled from snare to snare 
Should find being caught again a narrower hold 
Whence she should fly forth never, if cause 

indeed 
Should seem not given to use her worse ; and we 
Should be with all extremity pursued. 
To her more grief; for this should grieve her 

more 
Than what might heaviest fall upon her. 

TiL Ay ? 

She hath had then work enough to do to weep 
For them that bled before ; Northumberland, 
The choice of all the north spoiled, banished, 

slain, 
Norfolk that should have ringed the fourth sad 

time 
The fairest hand wherewith fate ever led 
So many a man to deathward, or sealed up 
So many an eye from sunlight. 

Bab, By my head. 

Which is the main stake of this cast, I swear 
There is none worth more than a tear of hers 
That man wears living or that man might lose, 
Borne upright in the sun, or for her sake 
Bowed down by theirs she weeps for : nay, but 

hear ; 



Scene I.] ^Ht^ ^tUStt 21 

She bids me take most vigilant heed, that all 

May prosperously find end assured, and you 

Conclude with me in judgment ; to myself 

As chief of trust in my particular 

Refers you for assurance, and commends . 330 

To counsel seasonable and time's advice 

Your common resolution ; and again. 

If the design take yet not hold, as chance 

For all our will may turn it, we should not 

Pursue*her transport nor the plot laid else 335 

Of our so baffled enterprise ; but say 

When this were done we might not come at her 

Being by mishap close guarded in the Tower 

Or some strength else as dangerous, yet, she 

saith. 
For God's sake leave not to proceed herein 340 
To the utmost undertaking ; for herself 
At any time shall most contentedly 
Die, knowing of our deliverance from the bonds 
Wherein as slaves we are holden. 

Barn. So shall I, 

Knowing at the least of her enfranchisement 345 
Whose life were worth the whole blood shed o' 

the world 
And all men's hearts made empty. 

Bab. Ay, good friend. 

Here speaks she of your fellows, that some stir 
Might be in Ireland laboured to begin 



22 £par^ g^tuart [act i. 

Some time ere we take aught on us, that thence 3 
The alarm might spring right on the part opposed 
To where should grow the danger: she mean- 
time 
Should while the work were even in hand assay 
To make the Catholics in her Scotland rise 
And put her son into their hands, that so 3 

No help may serve our enemies thence; again, 
That from our plots the stroke may come, she 

thinks 
To have some chief or general head of all 
Were now most apt for the instant end ; where- 
in 
I branch not off from her in counsel, yet 2 

Conceive not how to send the appointed word 
To the Earl of Arundel now fast in bonds 
Held in the Tower she spake of late, who now 
Would have us give him careful note of this, 
Him or his brethren j and from oversea : 

Would have us seek, if he be there at large, 
To the young son of dead Northumberland, 
And Westmoreland, whose hand and name, we 

know. 
May do much northward ; ay, but this we know. 
How much his hand was lesser than his name • 
When proof was put on either ; and the lord 
Paget, whose power is in some shires of weight 
To incline them usward ; both may now be had 



scENK I.] ^ati? ^tuatt 23 

And some, she saith, of the exiles principal, 
If the enterprise be resolute once, with these 375 
May come back darkling ; Paget lies in Spain, 
Whom we may treat with by his brother's mean, 
Charles, who keeps watch in Paris : then in the 

end 
She bids beware no messenger sent forth 
That bears our counsel bear our letters ; these 380 
Must through blind hands precede them or en- 

. sue 
By ignorant posts and severally despatched ; 
And of her sweet wise heart, as we were fools, 
— But that I think she fears not — bids take heed 
Of spies among us and false brethren, chief 385 
Of priests already practised on, she saith. 
By the enemy's craft against us ; what, forsooth, 
We have not eyes to set such knaves apart 
And look their wiles through, but should need 

misdoubt 
— Whom shall I say the least on all our side ? — 39® 
Good Gilbert GifFord with his kind boy's face 
That fear's lean self could fear not ? but God 

knows 
Woman is wise, but woman ; none so bold. 
So cunning none, God help the soft sweet wit. 
But the fair flesh with weakness taints it ; why, 395 
She warns me here of perilous scrolls to keep 
That I should never bear about me, seeing 



24 ^ar^ Stuart [act i. 

By that fault sank all they that fell before 
Who should have walked unwounded else of 

proof, 
Unstayed of justice : but this following word 4 
Hath savour of more judgment ; we should let 
As little as we may our names be known 
Or purpose here to the envoy sent from France, 
Whom though she hears for honest, we must 

fear 
His master holds the course of his design 4 

Far contrary to this of ours, which known 
Might move him to discovery. 

Tich. Well forewarned: 

Forearmed enough were now that cause at need 
Which had but half so good an armour on 
To fight false faith or France in. 

Bab. Peace awhile ; 4 

Here she winds up her craft. She hath long time 

sued 
To shift her lodging, and for answer hath 
None but the Castle of Dudley named as meet 
To serve this turn ; and thither may depart. 
She thinks, with parting summer; whence may 

we 4 

Devise what means about those lands to lay 
For her deliverance ; who from present bonds 
May but by one of three ways be discharged : 
When she shall ride forth on the moors that part 



Scene L] ^Ht^ ^tUHtt 25 

Her prison-place from Stafford, where few folk 420 

Use to pass over, on the same day set. 

With fifty or threescore men well horsed and 

armed, 
To take her from her keeper's charge, who rides 
With but some score that bear but pistols ; next. 
To come by deep night round the darkling house 4*5 
And fire the barns and stables, which being nigh 
Shall draw the household huddling forth to help, 
And Aey that come to serve her, wearing each 
A secret sign for note and cognizance. 
May some of them surprise the house, whom she 43° 
Shall with her servants meet and second ; last. 
When carts come in at morning, these being met 
In the main gateway's midst may by device 
Fall or be sidelong overthrown, and we 
Make in thereon and suddenly possess 435 

The house whence lightly might we bear her 

forth 
Ere help came in of soldiers to relief 
Who lie a mile or half a mile away 
In several lodgings : but howe'er this end 
She holds her bounden to me all her days 440 

Who proffer me to hazard for her love, 
And doubtless shall as well esteem of you 
Or scarce less honourably, when she shall know 
Your names who serve beneath me; so com- 
mends 



26 ^ar^ Stuart [act i. 

Her friend to God, and bids me burn the word^ 
That I would wear at heart for ever ; yet, 
Lest this sweet scripture haply write us dead, 
Where she set hand I set my lips, and thus 
Rend mine own heart with her sweet name, and 
end. Tears the letter, 

Sal. She hath chosen a trusty servant. 

Bab. Ay, of me ? ^ 

What ails you at her choice ? was this not I 
That laid the ground of all this work, and 

wrought 
Your hearts to shape for service ? or perchance 
The man was you that took this first on him, 
To serve her dying and living, and put on i 

The bloodred name of traitor and the deed 
Found for her sake not murderous ? 

Sal. Why, they sa" 

First GiiFord put this on you, Ballard next. 
Whom he brought over to redeem your heart 
Half lost for doubt already, and refresh i 

The flagging flame that fired it first, and now 
Fell faltering half in ashes, whence his breath 
Hardly with hard pains quickened it and blew 
The grey to red rekindling. 

Bab. Sir, they lie 

Who say for fear I faltered, or lost heart ^ 

For doubt to lose life after ; let such know 
It shames me not though I were slow of will 



scENK I] ^ar^ Stuart 27 

To take such work upon my soul and hand 
As killing of a queen j being once assured, 
Brought once past question, set beyond men's 

doubts 470 

By witness of God's will borne sensibly, 
Meseems I have swerved not. 

SaL Ay, when once the word 

Was washed in holy water, you would wear 
Lightly the name so hallowed of priests' lips 
That men spell murderer ; but till Ballard spake 475 
The shadow of her slaying whom we shall strike 
Was ice to freeze your purpose. 

Tich, Friend, what then ? 

Is this so small a thing, being English born. 
To strike the living empire here at heart 
That is called England ? stab her present state, 480 
Give even her false-faced likeness up to death. 
With hands that smite a woman ? I that speak. 
Ye know me if now my faith be firm, and will 
To do faith's bidding ; yet it wrings not me 
To say I was not quick nor light of heart, 485 

Though moved perforce of will unwillingly, 
To take in trust this charge upon me. 

Barn. I 

With all good will would take, and give God 

thanks, ' 
The charge of all that falter in it : by heaven. 
To hear in the end of doubts and doublings 

heaves 49° 



28 ^ar^ Stuart [act i. 

My heart up as with sickness. Why, by this 
The heretic harlot that confounds our hope 
Should be made carrion, with those following four 
That were to wait upon her dead : all five 
Live yet to scourge God's servants, and we prate 
And threaten here in painting : by my life, 
I see no more in us of life or heart 
Than in this heartless picture. 

Bab, Peace again ; 

Our purpose shall not long lack life, nor they 
Whose life is deadly to the heart of ours 
Much longer keep it ; Burghley, Walsingham, 
Hunsdon and Knowles, all these four names 

writ out. 
With hers at head they worship, are but now 
As those five several letters that spell death 
In eyes that read them right. Give me but faith 
A little longer: trust that heart awhile 
Which laid the ground of all our glories ; think 
I that was chosen of our queen's friends in 

France, 
By Morgan's hand there prisoner for her sake 
On charge of such a deed's device as ours 
Commended to her for trustiest, and a man 
More sure than might be Ballard and more fit 
To bear the burden of her counsels — I 
Can be not undeserving, whom she trusts. 
That ye should likewise trust me ; seeing at first 



Scene I] ^WC^ ^tXmtt 29 

She writes me but a thankful word, and this, 

God wot, for little service ; I return 

For aptest answer and thankworthiest meed 

Word of the usurper's plotted end, and she 

With such large heart of trust and liberal faith 520 

As here ye have heard requites me : whom, I 

think, 
For you to trust is no too great thing now 
For me to ask and have of all. 

Tick, Dear friend. 

Mistrust has no part in our mind of you 
More than in hers ; yet she too bids take heed, 525 
As I would bid you take, and let not slip 
The least of her good counsels, which to keep 
No whit proclaims us colder than herself 
Who gives us charge to keep them ; and to 

slight 
No whit proclaims us less unserviceable 53° 

Who are found too hot to serve her than the 

slave 
Who for cold heart and fear might fail. 

Bab, Too hot ! 

Why, what man's heart hath heat enough or 

blood 
To give for such good service ? Look you, sirs. 
This is no new thing for my faith to keep, 535 
My soul to feed its fires with, and my hope 
Fix eyes upon for star to steer by ; she 



30 ^ar^ g)tttart [act i. 

That six years hence the boy that I was then. 
And page, ye know, to Shrewsbury, gave his faith 
To serve and worship with his body and soul ; 
For only lady and queen, with power alone 
To lift my heart up and bow down mine eyes 
At sight and sense of her sweet sovereignty, 
Made thence her man for ever ; she whose look 
Turned all my blood of life to tears and fire, 
That going or coming, sad or glad — for yet 
She would be somewhile merry, as though to give 
Comfort, and ease at heart her servants, then 
Weep smilingly to be so light of mind. 
Saying she was like the bird grown blithe in 

bonds 
That if too late set free would die for fear, 
Or wild birds hunt it out of life — if sad. 
Put madness in me for her suffering's sake, 
If joyous, for her very love's sake — still 
Made my heart mad alike to serve her, being 
I know not when the sweeter, sad or blithe. 
Nor what mood heavenliest of her, all whose 

change 
Was as of stars and sun and moon in heaven ; 
She is well content, — ye have heard her — she, 

to die. 
If we without her may redeem ourselves 
And loose our lives from bondage; but her friends 
Must take forsooth good heed they be not, no. 



scKNEi] ^pat^ Stuart 31 

Too hot of heart to serve her ! And for me, 
Am I so vain a thing of wind and smoke 
That your deep counsel must have care to keep 565 
My lightness safe in wardship? I sought 

none — 
Craved no man's counsel to draw plain my plot, 
Need no man's warning to dispose my deed. 
Have I not laid of mine own hand a snare 
To bring no less a lusty bird to lure 570 

Than Walsingham with profFer of myself 
For scout and spy on mine own friends in 

France 
To fill his wise wide ears with large report 
Of all things wrought there on our side, and 

plots 
Laid for our queen's sake ? and for all his wit 575 
This politic knave misdoubts me not, whom ye 
Hold yet too light and lean of wit to pass 
Unspied of wise men on our enemies' part. 
Who have sealed the subtlest eyes up of them 

all. 
Tich, That would I know ; for if they be 

not blind, 580 

But only wink upon your profFer, seeing 
More than they let your own eyes find or fear, 
Why, there may lurk a fire to burn us all 
Masked in them with false blindness. 

Bab, Hear you, sirs ? 



32 ^ar^ Stuart [act i. 

Now by the faith I had in this my friend 585 

And by mine own yet flawless toward him, yea 
By all true love and trust that holds men fast, 
It shames me that I held him in this cause 
Half mine own heart, my better hand and eye, 
Mine other soul and worthier. Pray you, go ; 590 
Let us not hold you ; sir, be quit of us ; 
Go home, lie safe, and give God thanks ; lie 

close, 
Keep your head warm and covered ; nay, be 

wise; 
We are fit for no such wise folk's fellowship. 
No married man's who being bid forth to fight 595 
Holds his wife's kirtle fitter wear for man 
Than theirs who put on iron : I did know it. 
Albeit I would not know ; this man that was, 
This soul and sinew of a noble seed. 
Love and the lips that burn a bridegroom's 

through 600 

Have charmed to deathward, and in steel's good 

stead 
Left him a silken spirit. 

Tich. By that faith 

Which yet I think you have found as fast in me 
As ever yours I found, you wrong me more 
Than were I that your words can make me not 605 
I had wronged myself and all our cause ; I hold 
No whit less dear for love's sake even than love 



Scene!.] ^Ht^ ^tUatt 33 

Faith, honour, friendship, all that all my days 
Was only dear to my desire, till now 
This new thing dear as all these only were 6io 

Made all these dearer. If my love be less 
Toward you, toward honour or this cause, then 

think 
I love my wife not either, whom you know 
How close at heart I cherish, but in all 
Play false alike. Lead now which way you will, 6 15 
And wear what likeness ; though to all men else 
It look not smooth, smooth shall it seem to me, 
And danger be not dangerous ; where you go. 
For me shall wildest ways be safe, and straight 
For me the steepest ; with your eyes and heart 620 
Will I ,take count of life and death, and think 
No thought against your counsel : yea, by hea- 
ven, 
I had rather follow and trust my friend and die 
Than halt and hark mistrustfully behind 
To live of him mistrusted. 

Bab, Why, well said : 625 

Strike hands upon it ; I think you shall not find 
A trustless pilot of me. Keep we fast. 
And hold you fast my counsel, we shall see 
The state high-builded here of heretic hope 
Shaken to dust and death. Here comes more 

proof 630 

To warrant me no liar. You are welcome, sirs ; 



34 ^ar^g)tuart [acti. 

Enter Ballard^ disguised, and Savage, 
Good father captain, come you plumed or 

cowled, 
Or stoled or sworded, here at any hand 
The true heart bids you welcome. 

Ballard, Sir, at none 

Is folly welcome to mine ears or eyes. 6 

Nay, stare not on me stormily ; I say, 
I bid at no hand welcome, by no name, 
Be it ne'er so wise or valiant on men's lips. 
Pledge health to folly, nor forecast good hope 
For them that serve her, I, but take of men i 
Things ill done ill at any hand alike. 
Ye shall not say I cheered you to your death. 
Nor would, though nought more dangerous than 

your death 
Or deadlier for our cause and God's in ours 
Were here to stand the chance of, and your blood ( 
Shed vainly with no seed for faith to sow 
Should be not poison for men's hopes to drink. 
What is this picture ? Have ye sense or souls, 
Eyes, ears, or wits to take assurance in 
Of how ye stand in strange men's eyes and ears,( 
How fare upon their talking tongues, how dwell 
In shot of their suspicion, and sustain 
How great a work how lightly ? Think ye not 
These men have ears and eyes about your 

ways. 



Scene I.] ^^Ut^ ^tUait 35 

Walk with your feet, work with your hands, 

and watch ^55 

When ye sleep sound and babble in your sleep ? 
What knave was he, or whose man sworn and 

spy, 

That drank with you last night ? whose hireling 

Was this that pledged you, Master Babington, 
To a foul quean's downfall and a fair queen's 

rise ? 660 

Can- ye not seal your tongues from tavern 

speech. 
Nor sup abroad but air may catch it back. 
Nor think who set that watch upon your lips 
Yourselves can keep not on them ? 

Bah. What, my friends ! 

Here is one come to counsel, God be thanked, 665 
That bears commission to rebuke us all. 
Why, hark you, sir, you that speak judgment, 

you 
That take our doom upon your double tongue 
To sentence and accuse us with one breath. 
Our doomsman and our justicer for sin, 670 

Good Captain Ballard, Father Fortescue, 
Who made you guardian of us poor men, gave 
Your wisdom wardship of our follies, chose 
Your faith for keeper of our faiths, that yet 
Were never taxed of change or doubted ? You, 675 



36 ^ar^ Stuart [act i. 

'T is you that have an eye to us, and take note 

What time we keep, what place, what company, 

How far may wisdom trust us to be wise 

Or faith esteem us faithful, and yourself 

Were once the hireling hand and tongue and eye 680 

That waited on this very Walsingham 

To spy men's counsels and betray their blood 

Whose trust had sealed you trusty ? By God's 

light, 
A goodly guard I have of you, to crave 
What man was he I drank with yesternight, 685 
What name, what shape, what habit, as, forsooth, 
Were I some statesman's knave and spotted spy. 
The man I served, and cared not how, being 

dead. 
His molten gold should glut my throat in hell. 
Might question of me whom I snared last night, 690 
Make inquisition of his face, his gait. 
His speech, his likeness. Well, be answered 

then ; 
By God, I know not ; but God knows I think 
The spy most dangerous on my secret walks 
And witness of my ways most worth my fear 695 
And deadliest listener to devour my speech 
Now questions me of danger, and the tongue 
Most like to sting my trust and life to death 
Now taxes mine of rashness. 

Bal, Is he mad ? 



Scene L] ^Ht^ ^tUHtC 37 

Or are ye brainsick all with heat of wine 700 

That stand and hear him rage like men in 

storms 
Made drunk with danger ? have ye sworn with 

him 
To die the fool's death too of furious fear 
And passion scared to slaughter of itself ? 
Is there none here that knows his cause or me, 705 
Nor what should save or spoil us ? 

Tich. Friend, give ear; 

For God's sake, yet be counselled. 

Bab. Ay, for God's ! 

What part hath God in this man's counsels ? 

nay. 
Take you part with him ; nay, in God's name 

go; 
What should you do to bide with me ? turn back; 710 
There stands your captain. 

Savage. Hath not one man here 

One spark in spirit or sprinkling left of shame ? 
I that looked once for no such fellowship. 
But soldier's hearts in shapes of gentlemen, 
I am sick with shame to hear men's jangling 

tongues 715 

Outnoise their swords unbloodied. Hear me, 

sirs ; 
My hand keeps time before my tongue, and hath 
But wit to speak in iron ; yet as now 



38 £par^ @)euarc [act i. 

Such wit were sharp enough to serve our turn 
That keenest tongues may serve not. One thing 

sworn 740 

Calls on our hearts ; the queen must singly die, 
Or we, half dead men now with dallying, must 
Die several deaths for her brief one, and stretched 
Beyond the scope of sufferance ; wherefore here 
Choose out the man to put this peril on 7*5 

And gird him with this glory ; let him pass 
Straight hence to court, and through all stays of 

state 
Strike death into her heart. 

Bab, Why, this rings right ; 

Well said, and soldierlike ; do thus, and take 
The vanguard of us all for honour. 

Sav, Ay, 730 

Well would I go, but seeing no courtly suit 
Like yours, her servants and her pensioners. 
The doorkeepers will bid my baseness back 
From passage to her presence. 

Bab, O, for that, 

Take this and buy ; nay, start not from your 

word ; 735 

You shall not. 

Sav. Sir, I shall not. 

Bab, Here 's more gold ; 

Make haste, and God go with you ; if the plot 
Be blown on once of men's suspicious breath. 



Scene I.] £031^ ^tUatt 39 

We are dead, and all die bootless deaths — be 

swift — 
And her we have served we shall but surely slay. 740 
I will make trial again of Walsingham 
If he misdoubt us. O, my cloak and sword — 

Knocking within. 
I will go forth myself. What noise is that ? 
Get you to Gage's lodging ; stay not here ; 
Make speed without for Westminster ; perchance 745 
There may we safely shift our shapes and fly, 
If the tnd be come upon us. 

BaL It is here. 

Death knocks at door already. Fly ; farewell. 
Bah. I would not leave you — but they know 
you not — 
You need not fear, being found here singly. 

Bal. No. 750 

Bah, Nay, halt not, sirs j no word but haste ; 
this way. 
Ere they break down the doors. God speed us 
well! 

Exeunt all hut Ballard. As they go out, 
enter an Officer with Soldiers. 

Officer. Here 's one fox yet by the foot ; lay 
hold on him. 
• Bal. What would you, sirs ? 
Off. Why, make one foul bird fast. 

Though the full flight be scattered: for their kind 755 



40 ^ari^ Stuart [act i. 

Must prey not here again, nor here put on 
The jay's loose feathers for the raven priest's 
To mock the blear-eyed marksman : these 

plucked oiF 
Shall show the nest that sent this fledgeling forth, 
Hatched in the hottest holy nook of hell. ; 

Bal. I am a soldier. 

Off. Ay, the badge we know 

Whose broidery signs the shoulders of the file 
That Satan marks for Jesus. Bind him fast : 
Blue satin and slashed velvet and gold lace, 
Methinks we have you, and the hat's band here; 
So seemly set with silver buttons, all 
As here was down in order; by my faith, 
A goodly ghostly friend to shrive a maid 
As ever kissed for penance : pity 't is 
The hangman's hands must hallow him again 9 
When this lay slough slips off, and twist one rope 
For priest to swing with soldier. Bring him 

hence. Exeunt, 

Scene II. — Chartley. 

Mary Stuart and Mary Beaton. 

Mary Stuart. We shall not need keep house 
for fear to-day ; 
The skies are fair and hot; the wind sits well 
For hound and horn to chime with. I will go. 



Scene II.] ^^Ut^ g^tttStt 4I 

Mary Beaton, How far from this to Tixall ? 

Mary Stuart, Nine or ten 

Or what miles more I care not ; we shall find 5 
Fair field and goodly quarry, or he lies, 
The gospeller that bade us to the sport, 
Protesting yesternight the shire had none 
To shame Sir Walter Aston' s. God be praised, 
I take such pleasure yet to back my steed 10 

And bear my crossbow for a deer's death well, 
I am almost half content — and yet I lie — 
To ride no harder nor more dangerous heat 
And hunt no beast of game less gallant. 

Mary Beaton, Nay, 

You grew long since more patient. 

Mary Stuart. Ah, God help ! 15 

What should I do but learn the word of him 
These years and years, the last word learnt but 

one. 
That ever I loved least of all sad words ? 
The last is death for any soul to learn, 
The last save death is patience. 

Mary Beaton, Time enough 20 

We have had ere death of life to learn it in 
Since you rode last on wilder ways than theirs 
That drive the dun deer to his death. 

Mary Stuart. Eighteen — 

How many more years yet shall God mete out 
For thee and me to wait upon their will 25 



42 ^ar^ Stuart [Act i. 

And hope or hope not, watch or sleep, and dream 
Awake or sleeping ? surely fewer, I think. 
Than half these years that all have less of life 
Than one of those more fleet that flew before. 
I am yet some ten years younger than this queen, 
Some nine or ten ; but if I die this year 
And she some score years longer than I think 
Be royal-titled, in one year of mine 
I shall have lived the longer life, and die 
The fuller-fortuned woman. Dost thou mind 
The letter that I writ nigh two years gone 
To let her wit what privacies of hers 
Our trusty dame of Shrewsbury's tongue made 

mine 
Ere it took fire to sting her lord and me ? 
How thick soe'er o'erscurfed with poisonous 

lies. 
Of her I am sure it lied not j and perchance 
I did the wiselier, having writ my fill. 
Yet to withhold the letter when she sought 
Of me to know what villainies had it poured 
In ears of mine against her innocent name : 
And yet thou knowest what mirthful heart was 

mine 
To write her word of these, that had she read 
Had surely, being but woman, made her mad. 
Or haply, being not woman, had not. 'Faith, 
How say'st thou ? did I well ? 



Scene II.] ^W^ ^tUUtt 43 

Mary Beaton, Ay, surely well 5° 

To keep that back you did not ill to write. 

Mary Stuart, I think so, and again I think 
not ; yet 
The best I did was bid thee burn it. She, 
That other Bess I mean of Hardwick, hath 
Mixed with her gall the fire at heart of hell, 55 
And all the mortal medicines of the world 
To drug her speech with poison ; and God wot 
Her daughter's child here that I bred and loved, 
Bess Pierpoint, my sweet bedfellow that was. 
Keeps too much savour of her grandam's stock 60 
For me to match with Nau ; my secretary 
Shall with no slip of hers engraft his own. 
Begetting shame or peril to us all 
From her false blood and fiery tongue ; except 
I find a mate as meet to match with him 65 

For truth to me as Gilbert Curie hath found, 
I will play Tudor once and break the banns. 
Put on the feature of Elizabeth 
To frown their hands in sunder. 

Mary Beaton, Were it not 

Some tyranny to take her likeness on 70 

And bitter-hearted grudge of matrimony 
For one and not his brother secretary. 
Forbid your Frenchman's banns for jealousy 
And grace your English with such liberal love 
As Barbara fails not yet to find of you 75 



44 ^at^ Stuart [act i. 

Since she writ Curie for Mowbray ? and herein 
There shows no touch of Tudor in your mood 
More than its wont is ; which indeed is nought ; 
The world, they say, for her should waste, ere 

man 
Should get her virginal goodwill to wed. 

Mary Stuart, I would not be so tempered of 

my blood. 
So much mismade as she in spirit and flesh. 
To be more fair of fortune. She should hate 
Not me, albeit she hate me deadly, more 
Than thee or any woman. By my faith. 
Fain would I know, what knowing not of her 

now 
I muse upon and marvel, if she have 
Desire or pulse or passion of true heart 
Fed full from natural veins, or be indeed 
All bare and barren all as dead men's bones 
Of all sweet nature and sharp seed of love. 
And those salt springs of life, through fire and 

tears 
That bring forth pain and pleasure in their kind 
To make good days and evil, all in her 
Lie sere and sapless as the dust of death. 
I have found no great good hap in all my days 
Nor much good cause to make me glad of God, 
Yet have I had and lacked not of my life 
My good things and mine evil : being not yet 



Scene II. ] ^Hr^ ^tUait 45 

Barred from life's natural ends of evil and goodioo 
Foredoomed for man and woman through the 

world 
Till all their works be nothing : and of mine 
I know but this — though I should die to-day, 
I would not take for mine her fortune. 

Mary Beaton, No ? 

Myself perchance I would not. 

Mary Stuart. Dost thou think 105 

That- fire-tongued witch of Shrewsbury spake 

once truth 
Who told me all those quaint foul merry tales 
Of our dear sister that at her desire 
I writ to give her word of, and at thine 
Withheld and put the letter in thine hand no 

To burn as was thy counsel ? for my part. 
How loud she lied soever in the charge 
That for adultery taxed me with her lord 
And being disproved before the council here 
Brought on their knees to give themselves the lie 1 15 
Her and her sons by that first lord of four 
That took in turn this hell-mouthed hag to wife 
And got her kind upon her, yet in this 
I do believe she lied not more than I 
Reporting her by record, how she said lao 

What infinite times had Leicester and his queen 
Plucked all the fruitless fruit of bafiled love 
That being contracted privily they might, 



46 ^ar^ ^tuart [act i. 

With what large gust of fierce and foiled desire 
This votaress crowned, whose vow could no 

man break, i 

Since God whose hand shuts up the unkindly 

womb 
Had sealed it on her body, man by man 
Would course her kindless lovers, and in quest 
Pursue them hungering as a hound in heat. 
Full on the fiery scent and slot of lust, i 

That men took shame and laughed and mar- 
velled; one. 
Her chamberlain, so hotly would she trace 
And turn perforce from cover, that himself 
Being tracked at sight thus in the general eye 
Was even constrained to play the piteous hare i 
And wind and double till her amorous chase 
Were blind with speed and breathless ; but the 

worst 
Was this, that for this country's sake and shame's 
Our huntress Dian could not be content 
With Hatton and another born her man i 

And subject of this kingdom, but to heap 
The heavier scandal on her countrymen 
Had cast the wild growth of her lust away 
On one base-born, a stranger, whom of nights 
Within her woman's chamber would she seek i 
To kiss and play for shame with secretly ; 
And with the duke her bridegroom that should be. 



Scene II.] ^Ht^ ^CUart 47 

That should and could not, seeing forsooth no 

man 
Might make her wife or woman, had she dealt 
As with this knave his follower; for by night 150 
She met him coming at her chamber door 
In her bare smock and night-rail, and thereon 
Bade him come in ; who there abode three hours: 
But fools were they that thought to bind her will 
And stay with one man or allay the mood 155 

That-ranging still gave tongue on several heats 
To hunt fresh trails of lusty love ; all this, 
Thou knowest, on record truly was set down. 
With much more villainous else : she prayed me 

write 
That she might know the natural spirit and mind 160 
Toward her of this fell witch whose rancorous 

mouth 
Then bayed my name, as now being great with 

child 
By her fourth husband, in whose charge I lay 
As here in Paulet's; so being moved I wrote, 
And yet I would she had read it, though not now 165 
Would I re-write each word again, albeit 
I might, or thou, were I so minded, or 
Thyself so moved to bear such witness ; but 
'T is well we know not how she had borne to 

read 
All this and more, what counsel gave the dame, 170 



48 ^ar^ Stuart [act i. 

With loud excess of laughter urging me 

To enter on those lists of love-making 

My son for suitor to her, who thereby 

Might greatly serve and stead me in her sight ; 

And I replying that such a thing could be i 

But held a very mockery, she returns. 

The queen was so infatuate and distraught 

With high conceit of her fair fretted face 

As of a heavenly goddess, that herself 

Would take it on her head with no great pains i 

To bring her to believe it easily ; 

Being so past reason fain of flattering tongues 

She thought they mocked her not nor lied who 

said 
They might not sometimes look her full in face 
For the light glittering from it as the sun ; i 

And so perforce must all her women say 
And she herself that spake, who durst not look 
For fear to laugh out each in other's face 
Even while they fooled and fed her vein with 

words. 
Nor let their eyes cross when they spake to her i 
And set their feature fast as in a frame 
To keep grave countenance with gross mockery 

lined ; 
And how she prayed me chide her daughter, 

whom 
She might by no means move to take this way, 



Scene II. ] ^at^ ^tUHtt 49 

And for her daughter Talbot was assured 195 

She could not ever choose but laugh outright 
Even in the good queen's flattered face. God wot, 
Had she read all, and in my hand set down, 
I could not blame her though she had sought to 

take 
My head for payment ; no less poise on earth 200 
Had served, and hardly, for the writer's fee ; 
I could not much have blamed her; all the less, 
Thaci did take this, though from slanderous lips, 
For gospel and not slander, and that now 
I yet do well believe it. 

Mary Beaton. And herself 205 

Had well believed so much, and surely seen, 
For all your protest of discredit made 
With God to witness that you could not take 
Such tales for truth of her nor would not, yet 
You meant not she should take your word for 

this, 210 

As well I think she would not. 

Mary Stuart. Haply, no. 

We do protest not thus to be believed. 
And yet the witch in one thing seven years 

since 
Belied her, saying she then must needs die soon 
For timeless fault of nature. Now belike 215 

The soothsaying that speaks short her span to be 
May prove more true of presage. 



50 ^ar^ Stuart [act i. 

Mary Beaton, Have you hope 

The chase to-day may serve our further ends 
Than to renew your spirit and bid time speed ? 

Mary Stuart. I see not but I may ; the hour 
is full 2 

Which I was bidden expect of them to bear 
More fruit than grows of promise ; Babington 
Should tarry now not long ; from France our 

friends 
Lift up their heads to usward, and await 
What comfort may confirm them from our part a 
Who sent us comfort ; Ballard's secret tongue 
Has kindled England, striking from men's hearts 
As from a flint the fire that slept, and made 
Their dark dumb thoughts and dim disfigured 

hopes 
Take form from his and feature, aim and 

strength, a 

Speech and desire toward action ; all the shires 
Wherein the force lies hidden of our faith 
Are stirred and set on edge of present deed 
And hope more imminent now of help to come 
And work to do than ever ; not this time * 

We hang on trust in succour that comes short 
By Philip's fault from Austrian John, whose death 
Put widow's weeds on mine unwedded hope. 
Late trothplight to his enterprise in vain 
That was to set me free, but might not seal 2- 



Scene II. ] ^^t^ ^tmtt 5 1 

The faith it pledged nor on the hand of hope 

Make fast the ring that weds desire with deed 

And promise with performance; Parma stands 

More fast now for us in his uncle's stead, 

Albeit the lesser warrior, yet in place HS 

More like to avail us, and in happier time 

To do like service ; for my cousin of Guise, 

His hand and league hold fast our kinsman king. 

If not to bend and shape him for our use, 

Yet so to govern as he may not thwart 250 

Our forward undertaking till its force 

Discharge itself on England : from no side 

I see the shade of any fear to fail 

As those before so baffled ; heart and hand 

Our hope is armed with trust more strong than 

steel 455 

And spirit to strike more helpful than a sword 
In hands that lack the spirit ; and here to-day 
It may be I shall look this hope in the eyes 
And see her face transfigured. God is good 
He will not fail his faith for ever. O, a6o 

That I were now in saddle ! Yet an hour 
And I shall be as young again as May 
Whose life was come to August ; like this year, 
I had grown past midway of my life, and sat 
Heartsick of summer ; but new-mounted now 265 
I shall ride right through shine and shade of 

spring 



52 ^ar^ Stuart [acti. 

With heart and habit of a bride, and bear 

A brow more bright than fortune. Truth it is, 

Those words of bride and May should on my 

tongue 
Sound now not merry, ring no joy-bells out 
In ears of hope or memory ; not for me 
Have they been joyous words ; but this fair day 
All sounds that ring delight in fortunate ears 
And words that make men thankful, even to me 
Seem thankworthy for joy they have given me 

not ! 

And hope which now they should not. 

Mary Beaton. Nay, who knows ? 

The less they have given of joy, the more they 

may ; 
And they who have had their happiness before 
Have hope not in the future ; time overpast 
And time to be have several ends, nor wear 
One forward face and backward. 

Mary Stuart. God, I pray, 

Turn thy good words to gospel, and make truth 
Of their kind presage ! but our Scotswomen 
Would say, to be so joyous as I am. 
Though I had cause, as surely cause I have. 
Were no good warrant of good hope for me. 
I never took such comfort of my trust 
In Norfolk or Northumberland, nor looked 
For such good end as now of all my fears 



Scene II] ^Ht^ ^tmtt 53 

From all devices past of policy ^9° 

To join my name with my misnatured son's 
In handfast pledge with England's, ere my foes 
His counsellors had flawed his craven faith 
And moved my natural blood to cast me off 
Who bore him in my body, to come forth 295 

Less childlike than a changeling. But not long 
Shall they find means by him to work their 

will, 
Nor he bear head against me ; hope was his 
To reign forsooth without my fellowship. 
And he that with me would not shall not now 300 
Without or with me wield not or divide 
Or part or all of empire. 

Mary Beaton. Dear my queen, 

Vex not your mood with sudden change of 

thoughts ; 
Your mind but now was merrier than the sun 
Half rid by this through morning : we by noon 305 
Should blithely mount and meet him. 

Mary Stuart. So I said. 

My spirit is fallen again from that glad strength 
Which even but now arrayed it ; yet what cause 
Should dull the dancing measure in my blood 
For doubt or wrath, I know not. Being once 

forth, 310 

My heart again will quicken. Sings, 



54 ^at^ Stuart [act i. 

And ye maun braid your yellow hair 

And busk ye like a bride j 
Wi' sevenscore men to bring ye hame. 

And ae true love beside j 
Between the birk and the green rowan 

Fu' blithely shall ye ride. 

O ye maun braid my yellow hair. 

But braid it like nae bride ; 
And I maun gang my ways, mither, ; 

Wi' nae true love beside j 
Between the kirk and the kirkyard 

Fu' sadly shall I ride. 

How long since. 
How long since was it last I heard or sang 
Such light lost ends of old faint rhyme worn thin '< 
With use of country songsters .? When we twain 
Were maidens but some twice a span's length 

high, 
Thou hadst the happier memory to hold rhyme, 
But not for songs the merrier. 

Mary Beaton. This was one 

That I would sing after my nurse, I think, 3 
And weep upon in France at six years old 
To think of Scotland. 

Mary Stuart, Would I weep for that. 

Woman or child, I have had now years enough 
To weep in ; thou wast never French in heart, 
Serving the queen of France. Poor queen that 
was. 



Scene II.] ^^Bt^ g^tUatt 55 

Poor boy that played her bridegroom ! now they 

seem 
In these mine eyes that were her eyes as far 
Beyond the reach and range of oldworld time 
As their first fathers' graves. 

Enter Sir Amyas Paulet, 

Paulet, Madam, if now 

It please you to set forth, the hour is full, 340 

And there your horses ready. 

Mart Stuart, Sir, my thanks. 

We are bounden to you and this goodly day 
For no small comfort. Is it your will we ride 
Accompanied with any for the nonce 
Of our own household ? 

Paul, If you will, to-day 345 

Your secretaries have leave to ride with you. 

Mary Stuart, We keep some state then yet. I 
pray you, sir. 
Doth he wait on you that came here last month, 
A low-built lank-cheeked Judas-bearded man. 
Lean, supple, grave, pock-pitten, yellow-polled, 350 
A smiling fellow with a downcast eye ? 

Paul, Madam, I know the man for none of 
mine. 

Mary Stuart, I give you joy as you should 
give God thanks. 
Sir, if I err not ; but meseemed this man 
Found gracious entertainment here, and took 355 



56 ^ar^§)tttart [acti. 

Such counsel with you as I surely thought 
Spake him your friend, and honourable j but now 
If I misread not an ambiguous word 
It seems you know no more of him or less 
Than Peter did, being questioned, of his Lord. 3 
Paul. I know not where the cause were to be 

sought 
That might for likeness or unlikeness found 
Make seemly way for such comparison 
As turns such names to jest and bitterness j 
Howbeit, as I denied not nor disclaimed 3 

To know the man you speak of, yet I may 
With very purity of truth profess 
The man to be not of my following. 

Mary Stuart. See 

How lightly may the tongue that thinks no ill 
Or trip or slip, discoursing that or this 3 

With grave good men in purity and truth, 
And come to shame even with a word ! God 

wot. 
We had need put bit and bridle in our lips 
Ere they take on them of their foolishness 
To change wise words with wisdom. Come, 3 

sweet friend. 
Let us go seek our kind with horse and hound 
To keep us witless company ; belike. 
There shall we find our fellows. 

Exeunt Mary Stuart and Mary Beaton. 



Scene II.] ^Ut^ ^tUm 57 

Paul. Would to God 

This day had done its office ! mine till then 
Holds me the verier prisoner. 
Enter Phillipps, 

Phillipps. She will go ? 380 

PauL Gladly, poor sinful fool ; more gladly, 
sir. 
Than I go with her. 

PhilL Yet you go not far 

She is- come too near her end of wayfaring 
To tire much more men's feet that follow. 

Paul. Ay. 

She walks but half blind yet to the end ; even now 385 
She spake of you, and questioned doubtfully 
What here you came to do, or held what place 
Or commerce with me : when you caught her 

eye. 
It seems your courtesy by some graceless chance 
Found but scant grace with her. 

Phill. 'T is mine own blame, 390 

Or fault of mine own feature ; yet forsooth 
I greatly covet not their gracious hap 
Who have found or find most grace with her. I 

pray. 
Doth Wade go with you ? 

Paul. Nay, — what, know you not ? — 

But with Sir Thomas Gorges, from the court, 395 
To drive this deer at Tixall. 



58 £pat^ Stuart [act i. 

PhilL Two years since, 

He went, I think, commissioned from the queen 
To treat with her at Sheffield ? 

Paul, Ay, and since 

She hath not seen him ; who being known of 

here 
Had haply given her swift suspicion edge 4 

Or cause at least of wonder. 

PhilL And I doubt 

His last year's entertainment oversea 
As our queen's envoy to demand of France 
Her traitor Morgan's body, whence he brought 
Nought save dry blows back from the duke 4 

d'Aumale 
And for that prisoner's quarters here to hang 
His own not whole but beaten, should not much 
Incline him to more good regard of her 
For whose love's sake her friends have dealt with 

him 
So honourably, nor she that knows of this 4 

Be the less like to take his presence here 
For no good presage to her : you have both done 

well 
To keep his hand as close herein as mine. 

Paul, Sir, by my faith I know not, for myself, 
What part is for mine honour, or wherein 4 

Of all this action laid upon mine hand 
The name and witness of a gentleman 



Scene II.] ^Ut^ ^tUatt 59 

May gain desert or credit, and increase 

In seed and harvest of good men's esteem 

For heritage to his heirs, that men unborn 420 

Whose fame is as their name derived from his 

May reap in reputation ; and indeed 

I look for none advancement in the world 

Further than this that yet for no man's sake 

Would I forego, to keep the name I have 425 

And honour, which no son of mine shall say 

I haYe left him not for any deed of mine 

As perfect as my sire bequeathed it me : 

I say, for any word or work yet past 

No tongue can thus far tax me of decline 430 

From that fair forthright way of gentleman, 

Nor shall for any that I think to do 

Or aught I think to say alive : howbeit, 

I were much bounden to the man would say 

But so much for me in our mistress' ear, 435 

The treasurer's, or your master Walsingham's, 

Whose office here I have undergone thus long 

And had I leave more gladly would put off 

Than ever I put on me ; being not one 

That out of love toward England even or God 440 

At mightiest men's desire would lightly be 

For loyalty disloyal, or approved 

In trustless works a trusty traitor ; this 

He that should tell them of me, to procure 

The speedier end here of this work imposed, 445 



6o ^ar^ g^tuart [act i. 

Should bind me to him more heartily than thanks 
Might answer. 

PhtlL Good Sir Amyas, you and I 

Hold no such office in this dangerous time 
As men make love to for their own name's sake 
Or personal lust of honour ; but herein 450 

I pray you yet take note, and pardon me 
If I for the instance mix your name with mine, 
That no man's private honour lies at gage. 
Nor is the stake set here to play for less 
Than what is more than all men's names alive,455 
The great life's gage of England ; in whose 

name 
Lie all our own impledged, as all our lives 
For her redemption forfeit, if the cause 
Call once upon us ; not this gift or this. 
Or what best likes us or were gladliest given 460 
Or might most honourably be parted with 
For our more credit on her best behalf. 
Doth she we serve, this land that made us men, 
Require of all her children ; but demands 
Of our great duty toward her full deserts 465 

Even all we have of honour or of life. 
Of breath or fame to give her. What were I 
Or what were you, being mean or nobly born. 
Yet moulded both of one land's natural womb 
And fashioned out of England, to deny 470 

What gift she crave soever, choose and grudge 



Scene II.] ^WC^ ^tUatt 6 1 

What grace we list to give or what withhold, 

Refuse and reckon with her when she bids 

Yield up forsooth not life but fame to come, 

A good man's praise or gentleman's repute, 475 

Or lineal pride of children, and the light 

Of loyalty remembered ? which of these 

Were worth our mother's death, or shame that 

might 
Fall for one hour on England ? She must live 
And- keep in all men's sight her honour fast 480 
Though all we die dishonoured ; and myself 
Know not nor seek of men's report to know 
If what I do to serve her till I die 
Be honourable or shameful, and its end 
Good in men's eyes or evil ; but for God, 485 

I find not why the name or fear of him 
Herein should make me swerve or start aside 
Through faint heart's falsehood as a broken 

bow 
Snapped in his hand that bent it, ere the shaft 
Find out his enemies' heart, and I that end 490 
Whereto I am sped for service even of him 
Who put this office on us. 

Paul. Truly, sir, 

I lack the wordy wit to match with yours. 
Who speak no more than soldier ; this I know, 
I am sick in spirit and heart to have in hand 495 
Such work or such device of yours as yet 



^2 £parp Stuart [act i. 

For fear and conscience of what worst may come 
I dare not well bear through. 

Phill. Why, so last month 

You writ my master word and me to boot 
I had set you down a course for many things 500 
You durst not put in execution, nor 
Consign the packet to this lady's hand 
That was returned from mine, seeing all was 

well. 
And you should hold yourself most wretched 

man 
If by your mean or order there should spring 505 
Suspicion 'twixt the several messengers 
Whose hands unwitting each of other ply 
The same close trade for the same golden end, 
While either holds his mate a faithful fool 
And all their souls, baseborn or gently bred, 510 
Are coined and stamped and minted for our use 
And current in our service ; I thereon 
To assuage your doubt and fortify your fear 
Was posted hither, where by craft and pains 
The web is wound up of our enterprise 515 

And in our hands we hold her very heart 
As fast as all this while we held impawned 
The faith of Barnes that stood for GifFord here 
To take what letters for his mistress came 
From southward through the ambassador of 

France ^ao 



Scene IL] ^ar^ ^tUatt 63 

And bear them to the brewer, your honest man, 
Who wist no further of his fellowship 
Than he of GifFord's, being as simple knaves 
As knavish each in his simplicity, 
And either serviceable alike, to shift 525 

Between my master's hands and yours and mine 
Her letters writ and answered to and fro ; 
And all these faiths as weathertight and safe 
As was the box that held those letters close 
At bottom of the barrel, to give up 530 

The charge there sealed and ciphered, and re- 
ceive 
A charge as great in peril and in price 
To yield again, when they drew ofF the beer 
That weekly served this lady's household whom 
We have drained as dry of secrets drugged with 

death 535 

As ever they this vessel, and return 
To her own lips the dregs she brewed or we 
For her to drink have tempered. What of this 
Should seem so strange now to you, or distaste 
So much the daintier palate of your thoughts, 540 
That I should need reiterate you by word 
The work of us o'erpast, or fill your ear 
With long foregone recital, that at last 
Your soul may start not or your sense recoil 
To know what end we are come to, or what 

hope 545 



64 ^arp Stuart [act i. 

We took in hand to cut this peril off 
By what close mean soe'er and what foul hands 
Unwashed of treason, which it yet mislikes 
Your knightly palm to touch or close with, 

seeing 
The grime of gold is baser than of blood 550! 

That barks their filthy fingers ? yet with these 
Must you cross hands and grapple, or let fall 
The trust you took to treasure. 

Paul. Sir, I will, 

Even till the queen take back that gave it ; yet 
Will not join hands with these, nor take on mine 555 
The taint of their contagion ; knowing no cause 
That should confound or couple my good name 
With theirs more hateful than the reek of hell. 
You had these knaveries and these knaves in 

charge. 
Not I that knew not how to handle them 560 

Nor whom to choose for chief of treasons, him 
That in mine ignorant eye, unused to read 
The shameful scripture of such faces, bare 
Graved on his smooth and simple cheek and 

brow 
No token of a traitor ; yet this boy, 565 

This milk-mouthed weanling with his maiden 

chin. 
This soft-lipped knave, late suckled as on blood 
And nursed of poisonous nipples, have you not 



Scene II.] ^^t^ ^tXlWCt 65 

Found false or feared by this, whom first you 

found 
A trustier thief and worthier of his wage 570 

Than I, poor man, had wit to find him ? I, 
That trust no changelings of the church of hell. 
No babes reared priestlike at the paps of Rome 
Who have left the old harlot's deadly dugs 

drawn dry, 
I lacked the craft to rate this knave of price, 575 
Your smock-faced Giffbrd, at his worth aright, 
Which now comes short of promise. 

PhilL O, not he ; 

Let not your knighthood for a slippery word 
So much misdoubt his knaveship; here from 

France, 
On hint of our suspicion in his ear 580 

Half jestingly recorded, that his hand 
Were set against us in one politic track 
With his old yoke-fellows in craft and creed. 
Betraying not them to us but ourselves to them. 
My Gilbert writes me with such heat of hand 585 
Such piteous protestation of his faith 
So stuffed and swoln with burly-bellied oaths 
And God and Christ confound him if he lie 
And Jesus save him as he speaks mere truth. 
My gracious godly priestling, that yourself 590 

Must sure be moved to take his truth on trust 
Or stand for him approved an atheist. 



66 ^ar^ ^tuare [act i. 

Paul Well, 

That you find stufF of laughter in such gear 
And mirth to make out of the godless mouth 
Of such a twice-turned villain, for my part 595 
I take in token of your certain trust. 
And make therewith mine own assurance sure, 
To see betimes an end of all such craft 
As takes the faith forsworn of loud-tongued liars 
And blasphemies of brothel-breathing knaves 600 
To build its hope or break its jest upon ; 
And so commend you to your charge, and take 
Mine own on me less gladly ; for by this 
She should be girt to ride, as the old saw saith. 
Out of God's blessing into the warm sun 605 

And out of the warm sun into the pit 
That men have dug before her, as herself 
Had dug for England else a deeper grave 
To hide our hope for ever : yet I would 
This day and all that hang on it were done. 610 

Exeunt. 

Scene III. — Before Tixall Park. 

Mary Stuart, Mary Beaton, Paulet, Curie, Nau, and 
Attendants. 

Mary Stuart, If I should never more back 
steed alive 
But now had ridden hither this fair day 
The last road ever I must ride on earth. 



Scene III] g^WCl^ ^tUatt 67 

Yet would I praise it, saying of all days gone 
And all roads ridden in sight of stars and sun 5 
Since first I sprang to saddle, here at last 
I had found no joyless end. These ways are 

smooth, 
And all this land's face merry ; yet I find 
The ways even therefore not so good to ride. 
And all the land's face therefore less worth love, 10 
Being smoother for a palfrey's maiden pace 
And merrier than our moors for outlook ; nay, 
I lie to say so ; there the wind and sun 
Make madder mirth by midsummer, and fill 
With broader breath and lustier length of light 15 
The heartier hours that clothe for even and dawn 
Our bosom-belted billowy-blossoming hills 
Whose hearts break out in laughter like the sea 
For miles of heaving heather. Ye should mock 
My banished praise of Scotland ; and in faith ao 
I praised it but to prick you on to praise 
Of your own goodly land ; though field and wood 
Be parked and parcelled to the sky's edge out. 
And this green Stafford moorland smooth and 

strait 
That we but now rode over, and by ours 25 

Look pale for lack of large live mountain bloom 
Wind-bufFeted with morning, it should be 
Worth praise of men whose lineal honour lives 
In keeping here of history : but meseems 



68 ^ar^ Stuart [act i. 

I have heard, Sir Amyas, of your Hberal west 
As of a land more affluent-souled than this 
And fruitful-hearted as the south-wind j here 
I find a fair-faced change of temperate clime 
From that bald hill-brow in a broad bare plain 
Where winter laid us both his prisoners late 
Fast by the feet at Tutbury; but men say 
Your birthright in this land is fallen more fair 
In goodlier ground of heritage : perchance, 
Grief to be now barred thence by mean of me, 
Who less than you can help it or myself. 
Makes you ride sad and sullen. 

Paulet. Madam, no ; 

I pray you lay not to my wilful charge 
The blame or burden of discourtesy 
That but the time should bear which lays on me 
This weight of thoughts untimely. 

Mary Stuart. Nay, fair sir, 

If I, that have no cause in life to seem 
Glad of my sad life more than prisoners may. 
Take comfort yet of sunshine, he methinks 
That holds in ward my days and nights might 

well 
Take no less pleasure of this broad blithe air 
Than his poor charge that too much troubles 

him. 
What, are we nigh the chase ? 

Paul. Even hard at hand. 



Scene III.] ^Ut^ ^tUatt 69 

Alary Stuart. Can I not see between the glit- 
tering leaves 
Gleam the dun hides and flash the startled horns 
That we must charge and scatter ? Were I 

queen 55 

And had a crown to wager on my hand, 
Sir, I would set it on the chance to-day 
To shoot a flight beyond you. 

Paul. Verily, 

The hazard were too heavy for my skill : 
I would not hold your wager. 

Mary Stuart. No ! and why ? 60 

Paul. For fear to come a bowshot short of you 
On the left hand, unluckily. 

Mary Stuart. My friend. 

Our keeper's wit-shaft is too keen for ours 
To match its edge with pointless iron. — Sir, 
Your tongue shoots further than my hand or 

eye 65 

With sense or aim can follow. — Gilbert Curie, 
Your heart yet halts behind this cry of hounds, 
Hunting your own deer's trail at home, who lies 
Now close in covert till her bearing-time 
Be full to bring forth kindly fruit of kind 70 

To love that yet lacks issue ; and in sooth 
I blame you not to bid all sport go by 
For one white doe's sake travailing, who myself 
Think long till I may take within mine arm 



70 £par^ Stuart [act i. 

The soft fawn suckling that is yeaned not yet 
But is to make her mother. We must hold 
A goodly christening feast with prisoner's cheer 
And mirth enow for such a tender thing 
As will not weep more to be born in bonds 
Than babes born out of gaoler's ward, nor 

grudge 
To find no friend more fortunate than I 
Nor happier hand to welcome it, nor name 
More prosperous than poor mine to wear, if God 
Shall send the new-made mother's breast, for 

love 
Of us that love his mother's maidenhood, 
A maid to be my namechild, and in all 
Save love to them that love her, by God's grace, 
Most unlike me ; for whose unborn sweet sake 
Pray you meantime be merry. — 'Faith, methinks 
Here be more huntsmen out afield to-day 
And merrier than my guardian. Sir, look up ; 
What think you of these riders ? — All my friends, 
Make on to meet them. 

Paul. There shall need no haste ; 

They ride not slack or lamely. 

Mary Stuart, Now, fair sir. 

What say you to my chance on wager ? here 
I think to outshoot your archery. — By my 

life. 
That too must fail if hope now fail me ; these 



Scene IIL] ^^C^ ^tUatt 71 

That ride so far ofF yet, being come, shall bring 
Death or deliverance. Prithee, speak but once ; 

Jside to Mary Beaton. 
Say, these are they we looked for ; say, thou too loo 
Hadst hope to meet them; say, they should be 

here. 
And I did well to look for them ; O God ! 
Say but I was not mad to hope ; see there ; 
Speak, or I die. 

MTiry Beaton. Nay, not before they come. 

Mary Stuart. Dost thou not hear my heart ? 
it speaks so loud 105 

I can hear nothing of them. Yet I will not 
Fail in mine enemy's sight. This is mine hour 
That was to be for triumph ; God, I pray. 
Stretch not its length out longer ! 

Mary Beaton. It is past. 

Enter Sir Thomas Gorges, Sir William Wade, and 
Soldiers. 
Mary Stuart. What man is this that stands 

across our way ? no 

Gorges. One that hath warrant, madam, from 
the queen 
To arrest your French and English secretary 
And for more surety see yourself removed 
To present ward at Tixall here hard by, 
As in this paper stands of her subscribed. 115 

Lay hands on them. 



72 ^ar^ g>tttart [act i. 

Mary Stuart. Was this your riddle's word ? 

To Paulet. 
You have shot beyond me indeed, and shot to 

death 
Your honour with my life. — Draw, sirs, and 

stand ; 
Ye have swords yet left to strike with once, and 

• die 
By these our foes are girt with. Some good 

friend — 120 

I should have one yet left of you — take heart 
And slay me here. For God's love, draw ; they 

have not 
So large a vantage of us we must needs 
Bear back one foot from peril. Give not way ; 
Ye shall but die more shamefully than here 125 
Who can but here die fighting. What, no man ? 
Must I find never at my need alive 
A man with heart to help me ? O, my God, 
Let me die now and foil them ! Paulet, you. 
Most knightly liar and traitor, was not this 13° 
Part of your charge, to play my hangman too. 
Who have played so well my doomsman, and 

betrayed 
So honourably my trust, so bravely set 
A snare so loyal to make sure for death 
So poor a foolish woman ? Sir, or you 135 

That have this gallant office, great as his. 



Scene III.] ^Ht^ ^tUatC 73 

To do the deadliest errand and most vile 

That even your mistress ever laid on man 

And sent her basest knave to bear and slay, 

You are likewise of her chivalry, and should not 140 

Shrink to fulfil your title ; being a knight. 

For her dear sake that made you, lose not heart 

To strike for her one worthy stroke, that may 

Rid me defenceless of the loathed long life 

She gapes for like a bloodhound. Nay, I find 145 

A face, beside you that should bear for me 

Not life inscribed upon it ; two years since 

I read therein at Sheffield what goodwill 

She bare toward me that sent to treat withal 

So mean a man and shameless, by his tongue 150 

To smite mine honour on the face, and turn 

My name of queen to servant ; by his hand 

So let her turn my life's name now to death. 

Which I would take more thankfully than shame 

To plead and thus prevail not. 

PauL Madam, no, 155 

With us you may not in such suit prevail 
Nor we by words or wrath of yours be moved 
To turn their edge back on you, nor remit 
The least part of our office, which deserves 
Nor scorn of you nor wonder, whose own act 160 
Has laid it on us ; wherefore with less rage 
Please you take thought now to submit yourself. 
Even for your own more honour, to the effect 



74 ^af ^ Stuart [act i. 

Whose cause was of your own device, that here 
Bears fruit unlooked for; which being ripe in time j 
You cannot choose but taste of, nor may we 
But do the season's bidding, and the queen's 
Who weeps at heart to know it. — Disarm these 

men; 
Take you the prisoners to your present ward 
And hence again to London ; here meanwhile i 
Some week or twain their lady must lie close 
And with a patient or impatient heart 
Expect an end and word of judgment ; I 
Must with Sir William back to Chartley straight 
And there make inquisition ere day close i 

What secret serpents of what treasons hatched 
May in this lady's papers lurk, whence we 
Must pluck the fangs forth of them yet unfleshed. 
And lay these plots like dead and strangled snakes 
Naked before the council. 

Mary Stuart. I must go ? i 

Gorges, Madam, no help ; I pray your pardon. 
Mary Stuart. Ay? 

Had I your pardon in this hand to give. 
And here in this my vengeance — Words, and 

words ! 
God, for thy pity ! what vile thing is this 
That thou didst make of woman ? even in death, i 
As in the extremest evil of all our lives. 
We can but curse or pray, but prate and weep. 



Scene III.] £0WP^ ^CUHrt 75 

And all our wrath is wind that works no wreck, 
And all our fire as water. Noble sirs, 
We are servants of your servants, and obey 190 
The beck of your least groom ; obsequiously, 
We pray you but report of us so much. 
Submit us to you. Yet would I take farewell. 
May it not displease you, for old service' sake. 
Of one my servant here that was, and now 195 
Hath no word for me ; yet I blame him not, 
Who<am past all help of man ; God witness me, 
I would not chide now, Gilbert, though my 

tongue 
Had strength yet left for chiding, and its edge 
Were yet a sword to smite with, or my wrath 200 
A thing that babes might shrink at ; only this 
Take with you for your poor queen's true last 

word. 
That if they let me live so long to see 
The fair wife's face again from whose soft side. 
Now labouring with your child, by violent hands 205 
You are reft perforce for my sake, while I live 
I will have charge of her more carefully 
Than of mine own life's keeping, which indeed 
I think not long to keep, nor care, God knows. 
How soon or how men take it. Nay, good friend, 210 
Weep not; my weeping time is wellnigh past, 
And theirs whose eyes have too much wept for 

me 



76 spar^ Stuart [act i. 

Should last no longer. Sirs, I give you thanks 
For thus much grace and patience shown of you, 
My gentle gaolers, towards a queen unqueened 215 
Who shall nor get nor crave again of man 
What grace may rest in him to give her. 

Come, 
Bring me to bonds again, and her with me 
That hath not stood so nigh me all these years 
To fall ere life doth from my side, or take izo 
Her way to death without me till I die. 



END OF THE FIRST ACT. 



ACT II 
WALSINGHAM 



ACT 11. 

Scene I. — Windsor Castle, 
Queen Elizabeth and Sir Francis Walsingham, 

Elizabeth, What will ye make me ? Let the 

council know 
I am yet their loving mistress, but they lay 
Too strange a burden on my love who send 
As to their servant word what ways to take, 
What sentence of my subjects given subscribe 
And in mine own name utter. Bid them wait ; 
Have I not patience ? and was never quick 
To teach my tongue the deadly word of death, 
Lest one day strange tongues blot my fame with 

blood ; 
The red addition of my sister's name 
Shall brand not mine. 

Walsingham, God grant your mercy shown 
Mark not your memory like a martyr's red 
With pure imperial heart' s-blood of your own 
Shed through your own sweet-spirited height of 

heart 
That held your hand from justice. 

Eliz, I would rather 

Stand in God's sight so signed with mine own 

blood 



8o ^ar^ ^tmtt [act h. 

Than with a sister's — innocent ; or indeed 
Though guilty — being a sister's — might I 

choose, 
As being a queen I may not surely — no — 
I may not choose, you tell me. 

fp^al. Nay, no man 

Hath license of so large election given 
As once to choose, being servant called of 

God, 
If he vi^ill serve or no, or save the name 
And slack the service. 

Eliz. Yea, but in his Word 

I find no word that whets for king-killing 
The sword kings bear for justice; yet I doubt. 
Being drawn, it may not choose but strike at 

root — 
Being drawn to cut off treason. Walsingham, 
You are more a statesman than a gospeller; 
Take for your tongue's text now no text of 

God's, 
But what the devil has put into their lips 
Who should have slain me ; nay, what by God's 

grace. 
Who bared their purpose to us, through pain or 

fear 
Hath been wrung thence of secrets writ in fire 
At bottom of their hearts. Have they confessed ? 
f^ai. The twain trapped first in London. 



Scene L] ^UV^ ^tUWCt 8l 

Eliz. What, the priest ? 

Their twice-turned Ballard, ha ? 

Wai, Madam, not he. 

Eliz. God's blood ! ye have spared not him 
the torment, knaves ? 
Of all I would not spare him. 

Wal. Verily, no; 

The rack hath spun his life's thread out so fine 40 
There is but left for death to slit in twain 
The thickness of a spider's. 

Eliz, Ay, still dumb ? 

Wal. Dumb for all good the pains can get of 
him; 
Had he drunk dry the chalice of his craft 
Brewed in design abhorred of even his friends 45 
With poisonous purpose toward your majesty. 
He had kept scarce harder silence. 

Eiiz, Poison ? ay — 

That should be still the churchman's household 

sword 
Or saintly staff to bruise crowned heads from far 
And break them with his precious balms that 

smell 50 

Rank as the jaws of death, or festal fume 
When Rome yet reeked with Borgia ; but the rest 
Had grace enow to grant me for goodwill 
Some death more gracious than a rat's? God 
wot. 



82 £par^ Stuart [act ii. 

I am bounden to them, and will charge for this 
The hangman thank them heartily ; they shall 

not 
Lack daylight means to die by. God, meseems, 
Will have me not die darkling like a dog, 
Who hath kept my lips from poison and my 

heart 
From shot of English knave or Spanish, both 
Dubbed of the devil or damned his doctors, 

whom 
My riddance from all ills that plague man's life 
Should have made great in record ; and for wage 
Your Ballard hath not better hap to fee 
Than Lopez had or Parry. Well, he lies 
As dumb in bonds as those dead dogs in earth, 
You say, but of his fellows newly ta'en 
There are that keep not silence : what say these ? 
Pour in mine ears the poison of their plot 
Whose fangs have stung the silly snakes to death. 
WaL The first a soldier. Savage, in these 

wars 
That sometime serving sought a traitor's luck 
Under the prince Farnese, then of late 
At Rheims was tempted of our traitors there. 
Of one in chief, GifFord the seminarist. 
My smock-faced spy's good uncle, to take off 
Or the earl of Leicester or your gracious self; 
And since his passage hither, to confirm 



Scene I.] ^Ut^ ^tVUltt 83 

His hollow-hearted hardihood, hath had 

Word from this doctor more solicitous yet 80 

Sent by my knave his nephew, who of late 

Was in the seminary of so deadly seed 

Their reader in philosophy, that their head. 

Even Cardinal Allen, holds for just and good 

The purpose laid upon his hand ; this man 85 

Makes yet more large confession than of this. 

Saying from our Gilbert's trusty mouth he had 

Assurance that in Italy the Pope 

Hath levies raised against us, to set forth 

For seeming succour toward the Parmesan, 90 

But in their actual aim bent hither, where 

With French and Spaniards in one front of war 

They might make in upon us ; but from France 

No foot shall pass for inroad on our peace 

Till — so they phrase it — by these Catholics here 95 

Your majesty be taken, or — 

Eliz. No more — 

But only taken ? springed but bird-like ? Ha ! 
They are something tender of our poor personal 

chance — 
Temperately tender : yet I doubt the springe 
Had haply maimed me no less deep than life 100 
Sits next the heart most mortal. Or — so be it 
I slip the springe — what yet may shackle France, 
Hang weights upon their purpose who should else 
Be great of heart against us ? They take time 



84 £pat^ g^tuart [act ii. 

Till I be taken — or till what signal else 105 

As favourable ? 

Wal. Till she they serve be brought 

Safe out of Paulet's keeping. 

Eli%. Ay ? they know him 

So much my servant, and his guard so good, 
That sound of strange feet marching on our soil 
Against us in his prisoner's name perchance no 
Might from the walls wherein she sits his guest 
Raise a funereal echo ? Yet I think 
He would not dare — what think' st thou might he 

dare 
Without my word for warrant ? If I knew 
This— 

Wal. It should profit not your grace to know 115 
What may not be conceivable for truth 
Without some stain on honour. 

Elm. Nay, I say not 

That I would have him take upon his hand 
More than his trust may warrant : yet have men, 
Good men, for very truth of their good hearts "o 
Put loyal hand to work as perilous — well, 
God wot I would not have him so transgress — 
If such be called transgressors. 

WaL Let the queen 

Rest well assured he shall not. So far forth 
Our swordsman Savage witnesses of these 1*5 

That moved him toward your murder but in trust 



Scene I.] ^Ht^ ^tUHtt 85 

Thereby to bring invasion over sea : 
Which one more gently natured of his birth, 
Tichborne, protests with very show of truth 
That he would give no ear to, knowing, he saith, 13° 
The miseries of such conquest : nor, it seems. 
Heard this man aught of murderous purpose bent 
Against your highness. 

Eliz. Naught ? why then, again, 

To him I am yet more bounden, who may think, 
Being found but half my traitor, at my hands 13S 
To find but half a hangman. 

WaL Nay, the man 

Herein seems all but half his own man, being 
Made merely out of stranger hearts and brains 
Their engine of conspiracy ; for thus 
Forsooth he pleads, that Babington his friend 140 
First showed him how himself was wrought upon 
By one man's counsel and persuasion, one 
Held of great judgment, Ballard, on whose head 
All these lay all their forfeit. 

Eli%, Yet shall each 

Pay for himself red coin of ransom down 145 

In costlier drops than gold is. But of these 
Why take we thought ? their natural-subject 

blood 
Can wash not out their sanguine-sealed attempt, 
Nor leave us marked as tyrant : only she 
That is the head and heart of all your fears 150 



86 ^at^ &t\mt [Act n. 

"Whose hope or fear is England's, quick or dead, 
Leaves or imperilled or impeached of blood 
Me that with all but hazard of mine own, 
God knows, would yet redeem her. I will write 
With mine own hand to her privily, — what 

else? — 155 

Saying, if by word as privy from her hand 
She will confess her treasonous practices. 
They shall be wrapped in silence up, and she 
By judgment live unscathed. 

^al. Being that she is, 

So surely will she deem of your great grace, i6o 
And see it but as a snare set wide, or net 
Spread in the bird's sight vainly. 

Eliz, Why, then, well : 

She, casting ofF my grace, from all men's grace 
Cuts off herself, and even aloud avows 
By silence and suspect of jealous heart 165 

Her manifest foul conscience : on which proof 
I will proclaim her to the parliament 
So self-convicted. Yet I would not have 
Her name and life by mortal evidence 
Touched at the trial of them that now shall die 170 
Or by their charge attainted : lest myself 
Fall in more peril of her friends than she 
Stands yet in shot of judgment. 

Pf'aL Be assured. 

Madam, the process of their treasons judged 



scENB I.] £par^ Stuart 87 

Shall tax not her before her trial-time 175 

With public note of clear complicity 

Even for that danger's sake which moves you. 

Eli%. Me 

So much it moves not for my mere life's sake 
Which I would never buy with fear of death 
As for the general danger's and the shame's x8o 
Thence cast on queenship and on womanhood 
By means of such a murderess. But, for them, 
I wauld the merited manner of their death 
Might for more note of terror be referred 
To me and to my council : these at least 185 

Shall hang for warning in the world's wide eye 
More high than common traitors, with more 

pains 
Being ravished forth of their more villainous 

lives 
Than feed the general throat of justice. Her 
Shall this too touch, whom none that serves 

henceforth 190 

But shall be sure of hire more terrible 
Than all past wage of treason. 

WaL Why, so far 

As law gives leave — 

Eliz, What prat'st thou me of law ? 

God's blood ! is law for man's sake made, or 

man 
For law's sake only, to be held in bonds, 195 



88 ^ar^ fetuart [act ii. 

Led lovingly like hound in huntsman's leash 
Or child by finger, not for help or stay, 
But hurt and hindrance ? Is not all this land 
And all its hope and surety given to time 
Of sovereignty and freedom, all the fame ^o® 

And all the fruit of manhood hence to be, 
More than one rag or relic of its law 
Wherewith all these lie shackled ? as too sure 
Have states no less than ours been done to death 
With gentle counsel and soft-handed rule *o5 

For fear to snap one thread of ordinance 
Though thence the state were strangled. 

WaL Madam, yet 

There need no need be here of law's least 

breach. 
That of all else is worst necessity — ^ 
Being such a mortal medicine to the state *'® 

As poison drunk to expel a feverish taint 
Which air or sleep might purge as easily. 
EU%. Ay, but if air be poison-struck with 

plague 
Or sleep to death lie palsied, fools were they. 
Faint hearts and faithless, who for health's fair 

sake ai5 

Should fear to cleanse air, pierce and probe the 

trance. 
With purging fire or iron. Have your way. 
God send good end of all this, and procure 



Scene II.] ^Ht^ ^tttHtt 89 

Some mean whereby mine enemies' craft and his 
May take no feet but theirs in their own toils, aao 
And no blood shed be innocent as mine. 



Scene II. — Chartley. 
Mary Beaton and Sir Amyas Paulet. 

Paulet, You should do well to bid her less be 

moved 
Who needs fear less of evil. Since we came 
Again from Tixall this wild mood of hers 
Hath vexed her more than all men's enmities 
Should move a heart more constant. Verily, 5 

I thought she had held more rule upon herself 
Than to call out on beggars at the gate 
When she rode forth, crying she had nought to 

give, 
Being all as much a beggar too as they, 
With all things taken from her. 

Mary Beaton, Being so served, 10 

In sooth she should not show nor shame nor 

spleen : 
It was but seventeen days ye held her there 
Away from all attendance, as in bonds 
Kept without change of raiment, and to find. 
Being thence haled hither again, no nobler use, 15 
But all her papers plundered — then her keys 
By force of violent threat wrung from the hand 



90 £par^ Stuart [act h. 

She scarce could stir to help herself abed : 
These were no matters that should move her. 

Paul, None, 

If she be clean of conscience, whole of heart. 
Nor else than pure in purpose, but maligned 
Of men's suspicions : how should one thus 

wronged 
But hold all hard chance good to approve her case 
Blameless, give praise for all, turn all to thanks 
That might unload her of so sore a charge. 
Despoiled not, but disburdened ? Her great 

wrath 
Pleads hard against her, and itself spake loud 
Alone, ere other witness might unseal 
Wrath's fierce interpretation : which ere long 
Was of her secretaries expounded. 

Mary Beaton, Sir, 

As you are honourable, and of equal heart 
Have shown such grace as man being manful 

may 
To such a piteous prisoner as desires 
Nought now but what may hurt not loyalty 
Though you comply therewith to comfort her. 
Let her not think your spirit so far incensed 
By wild words of her mistress cast on you 
In heat of heart and bitter fire of spleen 
That you should now close ears against a prayer 
Which else might fairly find them open. 



Scene II.] ^^t^ ^tUait 9^ 

PauL Speak 4o 

More short and plainly : what I well may grant 
Shall so seem easiest granted. 

Mary Beaton, There should be 

No cause I think to seal your lips up, though 
I crave of them but so much breath as may 
Give mine ear knowledge of the witness borne 45 
(If aught of witness were against her borne) 
By those her secretaries you spake of. 

' Paul. This 

With hard expostulation was drawn forth 
At last of one and other, that they twain 
Had writ by record from their lady's mouth 50 
To Babington some letter which implies 
Close conscience of his treason, and goodwill 
To meet his service with complicity : 
But one thing found therein of deadliest note 
The Frenchman swore they set not down, nor she 55 
Bade write one word of favour nor assent 
Answering this murderous motion toward our 

queen : 
Only, saith he, she held herself not bound 
For love's sake to reveal it, and thereby 
For love of enemies do to death such friends ^^ 
As only for her own love's sake were found 
Fit men for murderous treason : and so much 
Her own hand's transcript of the word she sent 
Should once produced bear witness of her. 



92 spar^ Stuart [act h. 

Mary Beaton. Ay ? 

How then came this withholden ? 

Paul. If she speak 

But truth, why, truth should sure be manifest. 
And shall, with God's good will, to good men's 

joy 
That wish not evil : as at Fotheringay 
When she shall come to trial must be tried 
If it be truth or no : for which assay 
You shall do toward her well and faithfully 
To bid her presently prepare her soul 
That it may there make answer. 

Mary Beaton. Presently ? 

Paul. Upon the arraignment of her friends 
who stand 
As 't were at point of execution now 
Ere sentence pass upon them of their sin. 
Would you no more with me ? 

Mary Beaton. I am bounden to you 

For thus much tidings granted. 

Paul. So farewell. Exit. 

Mary Beaton. So fare I well or ill as one who 
knows 
He shall not fare much further toward his end. 
Here looms on me the landmark of my life 
That I have looked for now some score of years 
Even with long-sufFering eagerness of heart 
And a most hungry patience. I did know. 



Scene II.] ^Ht^ ^tUart 93 

Yea, God, thou knowest I knew this all that 

while, 85 

From that day forth when even these eyes 

beheld 
Fall the most faithful head in all the world. 
Toward her most loving and of me most loved. 
By doom of hers that was so loved of him 
He could not love me nor his life at all 90 

Nor his own soul nor aught that all men love, 
Nor could fear death nor very God, or care 
If there were aught more merciful in heaven 
Than love on earth had been to him. Chaste- 
lard! 
I have not had the name upon my lips 95 

That stands for sign of love the truest in man 
Since first love made him sacrifice of men. 
This long sad score of years retributive 
Since it was cast out of her heart and mind 
Who made it mean a dead thing ; nor, I think, 100 
Will she remember it before she die 
More than in France the memories of old friends 
Are like to have yet forgotten ; but for me. 
Haply thou knowest, so death not all be death. 
If all these years I have had not in my mind 105 
Through all these chances this one thought in 

all. 
That I shall never leave her till she die. 
Nor surely now shall I much longer serve 



94 ^ati? Stuart [act ii. 

Who fain would lie down at her foot and sleep, 
Fain, fain have done with waking. Yet my soul i 
Knows, and yet God knows, I would set not 

hand 
To such a work as might put on the time 
And make death's foot more forward for her 

sake : 
Yea, were it to deliver mine own soul 
From bondage and long-suffering of my life, i 
I would not set mine hand to work her wrong. 
Tempted I was — but hath God need of me 
To work his judgment, bring his time about. 
Approve his justice if the word be just 
That whoso doeth shall suffer his own deed, i 
Bear his own blow, to weep tears back for tears. 
And bleed for bloodshed ? God should spare me 

this 
That once I held the one good hope on earth. 
To be the mean and engine of her end 
Or some least part at least therein : I prayed, i 
God, give me so much grace — who now 

should pray. 
Tempt me not, God. My heart swelled once to 

know 
I bore her death about me ; as I think 
Indeed I bear it : but what need hath God 
That I should clench his doom with craft of 

mine ? i 



Scene II.] ^Ht^ ^tUHrt 95 

What needs the wrath of hot Elizabeth 

Be blown aflame with mere past writing read, 

Which hath to enkindle it higher already proof 

Of present practice on her state and life ? 

Shall fear of death or love of England fail '35 

Or memory faint or foresight fall stark blind, 

That there should need the whet and spur of 

shame 
To turn her spirit into some chafing snake's 
And make its fang more feared for mortal ? Yet 
I am glad, and I repent me not, to know 140 

I have the writing in my bosom sealed 
That bears such matter with her own hand 

signed 
As she that yet repents her not to have writ 
Repents her not that she refrained to send 
And fears not but long since it felt the fire — 145 
Being fire itself to burn her, yet unquenched. 
But in my hand here covered harmless up 
Which had in charge to burn it. What per- 
chance 
Might then the reading of it have wrought for us. 
If all this fiery poison of her scoffs 150 

Making the foul froth of a serpent's tongue 
More venomous, and more deadly toward her 

queen 
Even Bess of Hardwick's bitterest babbling tales. 
Had touched at heart the Tudor vein indeed ? 



96 ^ar^ Stuart [act n. 

Enough it yet were surely, though that vein 155 
Were now the gentlest that such hearts may hold 
And all doubt's trembling balance that way bent, 
To turn as with one mortal grain cast in 
The scale of grdce against her life that writ 
And weigh down pity deathward. 
Enter Mary Stuart, 

Mary Stuart, Have we found 160 

Such kindness of our keeper as may give 
Some ease from expectation ? or must hope 
Still fret for ignorance how long here we stay 
As men abiding judgment ? 

Mary Beaton. Now not long. 

He tells me, need we think to tarry ; since 165 
The time and place of trial are set, next month 
To hold it in the castle of Fotheringay. 

Mary Stuart, Why, he knows well I were 
full easily moved 
To set forth hence ; there must I find more scope 
To commune with the ambassador of France 170 
By letter thence to London : but, God help. 
Think these folk truly, doth she verily think. 
What never man durst yet nor woman dreamed. 
May one that is nor man nor woman think. 
To bring a queen born subject of no laws 175 

Here in subjection of an alien law 
By foreign force of judgment? Were she wise, 
Might she not have me privily made away ? 



Scene II.] ^UV^ ^tnUtt 97 

And being nor wise nor valiant but of tongue. 
Could she find yet foolhardiness of heart i8o 

Enough to attaint the rule of royal rights 
With murderous madness ? I will think not this 
Till it be proven indeed. 

Afary Beaton. A month come round, 

This man protests, will prove it. 

A^ry Stuart, Ay ! protests ? 

What protestation of what Protestant 185 

Can unmake law that was of God's mouth 

made, 
Unwrite the writing of the world, unsay 
The general saying of ages ? If I go. 
Compelled of God's hand or constrained of 

man's. 
Yet God shall bid me not nor man enforce 190 
My tongue to plead before them for my life. 
I had rather end as kings before me, die 
Rather by shot or stroke of murderous hands. 
Than so make answer once in face of man 
As one brought forth to judgment. Are they 

mad, 195 

And she most mad for envious heart of all. 
To make so mean account of me ? Methought, 
When late we came back hither soiled and spent 
And sick with travel, I had seen their worst of 

wrong 
Full-faced, with its most outrage : when I found 200 



98 ^ar^ g)tttart [act h. 

My servant Curie's young new-delivered wife 
Without priest's comfort and her babe un- 
blessed 
A nameless piteous thing born ere its time. 
And took it from the mother's arms abed 
And bade her have good comfort, since myself j 
Would take all charge against her husband laid 
On mine own head to answer j deeming not 
Man ever durst bid answer for myself 
On charge as mortal : and mine almoner gone, 
Did I not crave of Paulet for a grace : 

His chaplain might baptize me this poor babe. 
And was denied it, and with mine own hands 
For shame and charity moved to christen her 
There with scant ritual in his heretic sight 
By mine own woful name, whence God, I pray,: 
For her take off its presage ? I misdeemed. 
Who deemed all these and yet far more than 

these 
For one born queen indignities enough. 
On one crowned head enough of buffets : more 
Hath time's hand laid upon me : yet I keep j 
Faith in one word I spake to Paulet, saying 
Two things were mine though I stood spoiled 

of all 
As of my letters and my privy coin 
By pickpurse hands of office : these things yet 
Might none take thievish hold upon to strip j 



Scene III.] £^311? ^tUatt 99 

His prisoner naked of her natural dower, 

The blood yet royal running here unspilled 

And that religion which I think to keep 

Fast as this royal blood until I die. 

So where at last and howsoever I fare 230 

I need not much take thought, nor thou for love 

Take of thy mistress pity ; yet meseems 

They dare not work their open will on me : 

But God's it is that shall be done, and I 

Find end of all in quiet. I would sleep 235 

On this strange news of thine, that being 

awake 
I may the freshlier front my sense thereof 
And thought of life or death. Come in with me. 

Scene III. — Tyburn, 
A Crowd of Citizens, 

1st Citizen. Is not their hour yet on ? Men 
say the queen 
Bade spare no jot of torment in their end 
That law might lay upon them. 

2nd Citizen, Truth it is, 

To spare what scourge soe'er man's justice may 
Twist for such caitiff traitors were to grieve 5 

God's with mere inobservance. Hear you not 
How yet the loud lewd braggarts of their side 
Keep heart to threaten that for all this foil 
They are not foiled indeed, but yet the work 



100 £par^ Stuart [act n. 

Shall prosper with deliverance of their queen lo 
And death for her of ours, though they should 

give 
Of their own lives for one an hundredfold ? 
jrd Citizen. These are bold mouths ; one 

that shall die to-day, 
Being this last week arraigned at Westminster, 
Had no such heart, they say, to his defence, 15 
Who was the main head of their treasons. 

1st Cit. Ay, 

And yesterday, if truth belie not him. 
Durst with his doomed hand write some word 

of prayer 
To the queen's self, her very grace, to crave 
Grace of her for his gracelessness, that she 20 

Might work on one too tainted to deserve 
A miracle of compassion, whence her fame 
For pity of sins too great for pity of man 
Might shine more glorious than his crime 

showed foul 
In the eye of such a mercy. 

2nd Cit. Yet men said 25 

He spake at his arraignment soberly 
With clear mild looks and gracious gesture, 

showing 
The purport of his treasons in such wise 
That it seemed pity of him to hear them, how 
All their beginnings and proceedings had 30 



Scene III.] ^at^ §)tttart lOI 

First head and fountain only for their spring 

From ill persuasions of that poisonous priest 

Who stood the guiltiest near, by this man's side 

Approved a valiant villain. Barnwell next, 

Who came but late from Ireland here to court, 35 

Made simply protestation of design 

To work no personal ill against the queen 

Nor paint rebellion's face as murder's red 

With blood imperial : Tichborne then avowed 

He knew the secret of their aim, and kept, 40 

And held forsooth himself no traitor ; yet 

In the end would even plead guilty, Donne with 

him. 
And Salisbury, who not less professed he still 
Stood out against the killing of the queen. 
And would not hurt her for a kingdom : so, 45 
When thus all these had pleaded, one by one 
Was each man bid say fairly, for his part. 
Why sentence should not pass : and Ballard first. 
Who had been so sorely racked he might not 

stand. 
Spake, but as seems to none effect : of whom 50 
Said Babington again, he set them on. 
He first, and most of all him, who believed 
This priest had power to assoil his soul alive 
Of all else mortal treason : Ballard then. 
As in sad scorn — Yea^ Master Babington^ 55 

Quoth he, lay all upon me^ hut I wish 



102 £par^ Stuart [actii. 

For you the shedding of my blood might he 

The saving of your life : howbeit^for that^ 

Say what you will ; and I will say no more. 

Nor spake the swordsman Savage aught again, 60 

Who, first arraigned, had first avowed his cause 

Guilty : nor yet spake Tichborne aught : but 

Donne 
Spake, and the same said Barnwell, each had 

sinned 
For very conscience only : Salisbury last 
Besought the queen remission of his guilt. 65 

Then spake Sir Christopher Hatton for the rest 
That sat with him commissioners, and showed 
How by dark doctrine of the seminaries 
And instance most of Ballard had been brought 
To extreme destruction here of body and soul 70 
A sort of brave youths otherwise endowed 
With goodly gifts of birthright : and in fine 
There was the sentence given that here even 

now 
Shows seven for dead men in our present sight 
And shall bring six to-morrow forth to die. 75 

Enter Babington, Ballard (carried in a chair^, Tich- 
borne y Savage y Barnwelly Tilney, and Abington, 
guarded: Sheriff , Executioner y Chaplain, ^c* 
1st Cit, What, will they speak ? 
2nd Cit, Ay ; each hath leave in turn 

To show what mood he dies in toward his cause. 



Scene III.] ^at^ ^CUatt IO3 

Ballard, Sirs, ye that stand to see us take our 
doom, 
I being here given this grace to speak to you 
Have but my word to witness for my soul, go 

That all I have done and all designed to do 
Was only for advancement of true faith 
To furtherance of religion : for myself 
Aught would I never, but for Christ's dear 

church 
Was mine intent all wholly, to redeem 85 

Her sore affliction in this age and land, 
As now may not be yet : which knowing for 

truth, 
I am readier even at heart to die than live. 
And dying I crave of all men pardon whom 
My doings at all have touched, or who thereat 90 
Take scandal ; and forgiveness of the queen 
If on this cause I have offended her. 

Savage. The like say I, that have no skill in 
speech. 
But heart enough with faith at heart to die, 
Seeing but for conscience and the common good, 95 
And no preferment but this general weal, 
I did attempt this business. 

Barnwell. I confess 

That I, whose seed was of that hallowed earth 
Whereof each pore hath sweated blood for Christ, 
Had note of these men's drifts, which I deny 100 



104 ^ar^ Stuart [actii. 

That ever I consented with or could 

In conscience hold for lawful. That I came 

To spy for them occasions in the court 

And there being noted of her majesty 

She seeing mine eyes peer sharply like a man's i 

That had such purpose as she wist before 

Prayed God that all were well — if this were 

urged, 
I might make answer, it was not unknown 
To divers of the council that I there 
Had matters to solicit of mine own i 

Which thither drew me then : yet I confess 
That Babington, espying me thence returned, 
Asked me what news : to whom again I told, 
Her majesty had been abroad that day. 
With all the circumstance I saw there. Now i 
If I have done her majesty offence 
I crave her pardon : and assuredly 
If this my body's sacrifice might yet 
EstabHsh her in true religion, here 
Most willingly should this be offered up. i 

Tilney, I came not here to reason of my faith. 
But to die simply like a Catholic, praying 
Christ give our queen Elizabeth long life. 
And warning all youth born take heed by me. 
Ahington. I likewise, and if aught I have erred 

in aught i 

I crave but pardon as for ignorant sin. 



Scene III.] ^at^ ^tUatt IO5 

Holding at all points firm the Catholic faith ; 
And all things charged against me I confess, 
Save that I ever sought her highness' death : 
In whose poor kingdom yet ere long I fear 130 
Will be great bloodshed. 

Sheriff. Seest thou, Abington,' 

Here all these people present of thy kind 
Whose blood shall be demanded at thy hands 
If dying thou hide what might endanger them ? 
Speak therefore, why or by what mortal mean 135 
Should there be shed such blood ? 

Ahing. All that I know 

You have on record : take but this for sure. 
This country lives for its iniquity 
Loathed of all countries, and God loves it not. 
Whereon I pray you trouble me no more 140 

With questions of this world, but let me pray 
And in mine own wise make my peace with 
God. 

Bah. For me, first head of all this enterprise, 
1 needs must make this record of myself, 
I have not conspired for profit, but in trust 145 
Of men's persuasions whence I stood assured 
This work was lawful which I should have done 
And meritorious as toward God ; for which 
No less I crave forgiveness of my queen 
And that my brother may possess my lands 150 
In heritage else forfeit with my head. 



io6 £par^ Stuart [act ii. 

Tich, Good countrymen and my dear friends 
you look 
For something to be said of me, that am 
But an ill orator; and my text is worse. 
Vain were it to make full discourse of all 155 

This cause that brings me hither, which before 
Was all made bare, and is well known to most 
That have their eyes upon me : let me stand 
For all young men, and most for those born high, 
Their present warning here : a friend I had, 160 
Ay, and a dear friend, one of whom I made 
No small account, whose friendship for pure love 
To this hath brought me : I may not deny 
He told me all the matter, how set down. 
And ready to be wrought ; which always I 165 
Held impious, and denied to deal therein : 
But only for my friend's regard was I 
Silent, and verified a saying in me. 
Who so consented to him. Ere this thing 

chanced. 
How brotherly we twain lived heart in heart 170 
Together, in what flourishing estate. 
This town well knows : of whom went all re- 
port 
Through her loud length of Fleetstreet and the 

Strand 
And all parts else that sound men's fortunate 
names. 



Scene III.] ^Bt^ ^tttSlt IO7 

But Babington and Tichborne ? that therein 175 
There was no haughtiest threshold found of force 
To brave our entry j thus we lived our life, 
And wanted nothing we might wish for : then. 
For me, what less was in my head, God knows, 
Than high state matters ? Give me now but 

leave 180 

Scajrce to declare the miseries I sustained 
Since I took knowledge of this action, whence 
To his estate I well may liken mine. 
Who could forbear not one forbidden thing 
To enjoy all else afforded of the world : 185 

The terror of my conscience hung on me ; 
Who, taking heed what perils girt me, went 
To Sir John Peters hence in Essex, there 
Appointing that my horses by his mean 
Should meet me here in London, whence I 

thought 190 

To flee into the country : but being here 
I heard how all was now bewrayed abroad : 
Whence Adam-like we fled into the woods 
And there were taken. My dear countrymen. 
Albeit my sorrows well may be your joy, 195 

Yet mix your smiles with tears : pity my case. 
Who, born out of an house whose name de- 
scends 
Even from two hundred years ere English earth 
Felt Norman heel upon her, were it yet 



io8 ^ar^§)tuart [acth. 

Till this mishap of mine unspotted. Sirs, aoo 

I have a wife, and one sweet child : my wife. 
My dear wife Agnes : and my grief is there, 
And for six sisters too left on my hand : 
All my poor servants were dispersed, I know. 
Upon their master's capture : all which things 205 
Most heartily I sorrow for : and though 
Nought might I less have merited at her hands. 
Yet had I looked for pardon of my fault 
From the queen's absolute grace and clemency ; 
That the unexpired remainder of my years 210 

Might in some sort have haply recompensed 
This former guilt of mine whereof I die : 
But seeing such fault may find not such release 
Even of her utter mercies, heartily 
I crave at least of her and all the world ai5 

Forgiveness, and to God commend my soul. 
And to men's memory this my penitence 
Till our death's record die from out the land. 
1st Cit, God pardon him ! Stand back : what 
ail these knaves 
To drive and thrust upon us ? Help me, sir ; 220 
I thank you : hence we take them full in view : 
Hath yet the hangman there his knife in hand ? 

END OF THE SECOND ACT. 



ACT III 
BURGHLEY 



ACT III. 

Scene I. The presence-chamber i7t Fotheringay Castle. 
At the upper end, a chair of state as for Queen 
Elizabeth ; opposite, in the centre of the hall, a 
chair for Mary Stuart. The Commissioners seated 
^ on either side along the wall: to the right the Earls, 
with Lord Chancellor Bromley and Lord Treasurer 
Burghley ; to the left, the Barons, with the Knights 
of the Privy Council, among them Walsingham and 
Paulet ; Popham, Egerton, and Gawdy, as Coun- 
sel for the Crown. Enter Mary Stuart, supported by 
Sir Andrew Melville, and takes her place. 

Mary Stuart. Here are full many men of coun- 
sel met; 
Not one for me. The Chancellor rises, 

Bromley. Madam, this court is held 

To make strait inquisition as by law 
Of what with grief of heart our queen has heard, 
A plot upon her life, against the faith 5 

Here in her kingdom established : on which 

cause 
Our charge it is to exact your answer here 
And put to proof your guilt or innocence. 
Mary Stuart (rising). Sirs, whom by strange 
constraint I stand before. 
My lords, and not my judges, since no law lo 



1 1 2 ^ar^ Stuart [act m. 

Can hold to mortal judgment answerable 
A princess free-born of all courts on earth, 
I rise not here to make response as one 
Responsible toward any for my life 
Or of mine acts accountable to man. 
Who see none higher save only God in heaven : 
I am no natural subject of your land 
That I should here plead as a criminal charged, 
Nor in such wise appear I now : I came 
On your queen's faith to seek in England help 
By trothplight pledged me : where by promise- 
breach 
I am even since then her prisoner held in ward : 
Yet, understanding by report of you 
Some certain things I know not of to be 
Against me brought on record, by my will 
I stand content to hear and answer these. 

Brom, Madam, there lives none born on earth 
so high 
Who for this land's laws' breach within this land 
Shall not stand answerable before those laws. 
Burghley. Let there be record of the prisoner's 
plea 
And answer given such protest here set down. 
And so proceed we to this present charge. 
Gawdy. My lords, to unfold by length of cir- 
cumstance 
The model of this whole conspiracy 



Scene I.] ^WC^ ^CUHrt 1 1 3 

Should lay the pattern of all treasons bare 35 

That ever brought high state in danger: this 
No man there lives among us but hath heard, 
How certain men of our queen's household folk 
Being vi^rought on by persuasion of their priests 
Drew late a bond between them, binding these 40 
With others of their faith accomplices 
Directed first of Anthony Babington 
By mean of six for execution chosen 
To slay the queen their mistress, and thereon 
Make all her trustiest men of trust away ; 45 

As my lord treasurer Burghley present here. 
Lord Hunsdon, and Sir Francis Walsingham, 
And one that held in charge awhile agone 
This lady now on trial, Sir Francis Knowles. 
That she was hereto privy, to her power 50 

Approving and abetting their device, 
It shall not stand us in much need to show 
Whose proofs are manifoldly manifest 
On record written of their hands and hers. 
Mary Stuart. Of all this I know nothing: 
Babington 55 

I have used for mine intelligencer, sent 
With letters charged at need, but never yet 
Spake with him, never writ him word of mine 
As privy to these close conspiracies 
Nor word of his had from him. Never came 60 
One harmful thought upon me toward your queen, 



i 14 £par^ g)tttait [act in. 

Nor knowledge ever that of other hearts 

Was harm designed against her. Proofs, ye say, 

Forsooth ye hold to impeach me : I desire 

But only to behold and handle them 

If they in sooth of sense be tangible 

More than mere air and shadow. 

Burgh, Let the clerk 

Produce those letters writ from Babington. 

Mary Stuart. What then ? it may be such 
were writ of him : 
Be it proved that they came ever in my hands. 
If Babington affirm so much, I say 
He, or who else will say it, lies openly. 

Gaw. Here is the man's confession writ, and 
here 
Ballard's the Jesuit, and the soldier's here, 
Savage, that served with Parma. 

Mary Stuart, What of these ? 

Traitors they were, and traitor-like they lied. 

Gaw. And here the last her letter of response 
Confirming and approving in each point 
Their purpose, writ direct to Babington. 

Mary Stuart. My letter ? none of mine it is : 
perchance 
It may be in my cipher charactered. 
But never came from or my tongue or hand : 
I have sought mine own deliverance, and thereto 
Solicited of my friends their natural help : 



Scene I.] ^at^ ^tUart 1 1 5 

Yet certain whom I list not name there were, 85 

Whose offers made of help to set me free 

Receiving, yet I answered not a word. 

Howbeit, desiring to divert the storm 

Of persecution from the church, for this 

To your queen's grace I have made most earnest 

suit : 90 

But Jbr mine own part I would purchase not 
This kingdom with the meanest one man's death 
In all its commonalty, much less the queen's. 
Many there be have dangerously designed 
Things that I knew not : yea, but very late 95 

There came a letter to my hand which craved 
My pardon if by enterprise of some 
Were undertaken aught unknown of me : 
A cipher lightly may one counterfeit, 
As he that vaunted him of late in France 100 

To be my son's base brother : and I fear 
Lest this, for aught mine ignorance of it knows, 
May be that secretary's fair handiwork 
Who sits to judge me, and hath practised late, 
I hear, against my son's life and mine own. 105 
But I protest I have not so much as thought 
Nor dreamed upon destruction of the queen : 
I had rather spend most gladly mine own life 
Than for my sake the Catholics should be 

thus 
Afflicted only in very hate of me "lo 



1 1 6 spar^ g>tuart [act m. 

And drawn to death so cruel as these tears 
Gush newly forth to think of. 

Burgh. Here no man 

Who hath showed himself true subject to the state 
Was ever for religion done to death : 
But some for treason, that against the queen "5 
Upheld the pope's bull and authority. 

Mary Stuart. Yet have I heard it otherwise 
affirmed 
And read in books set forth in print as much. 

Burgh. They that so write say too the queen 
hath here 
Made forfeit of her royal dignity. 120 

Wahingham. Here I call God to record on 
my part 
That personally or as a private man 
I have done nought misbeseeming honesty, 
Nor as I bear a public person's place 
Done aught thereof unworthy. I confess 125 

That, being right careful of the queen's estate 
And safety of this realm, I have curiously 
Searched out the practices against it : nay, 
Herein had Ballard offered me his help, 
I durst not have denied him ; yea, I would 130 
Have recompensed the pains he had taken. Say 
I have practised aught with him, why did he not. 
To save his life, reveal it ? 

Mary Stuart. Pray you, sir, 



Scene I.] ^^t^ §)tttart 1 1 7 

Take no displeasure at me : truth it is 

Report has found me of your dealings, blown 135 

From lip to ear abroad, wherein myself 

I put no credit : and could but desire 

Yourself would all as little make account 

Of slanders flung on me. Spies, sure, are men 

Of doubtful credit, which dissemble things '4° 

Far j3ther than they speak. Do not believe 

That I gave ever or could give consent 

Once to the queen's destruction : I would never. 

These tears are bitter witness, never would 

Make shipwreck of my soul by compassing 145 

Destruction of my dearest sister. 

Gawdy. This 

Shall soon by witness be disproved : as here 
Even by this letter from Charles Paget's hand 
Transcribed, which Curie your secretary hath 

borne 
Plain witness you received, touching a league 150 
Betwixt Mendoza and Ballard, who conferred 
Of this land's foreordained invasion, thence 
To give you freedom. 

Mary Stuart. What of this ? ye shoot 

Wide of the purpose : this approves not me 
Consenting to the queen's destruction. 

Gawdy. That 155 

Stands proven enough by word of Babington 
Who dying avowed it, and by letters passed 



1 1 8 £par^ Stuart [act m. 

From him to you, whom he therein acclaims 
As his most dread and sovereign lady and queen, 
And by the way makes mention passingly i6o 

Of a plot laid by transference to convey 
This kingdom to the Spaniard. 

Mary Stuart, I confess 

There came a priest unto me, saying if I 
Would not herein bear part I with my son 
Alike should be debarred the inheritance : 165 

His name ye shall not have of me : but this 
Ye know, that openly the Spaniard lays 
Claim to your kingdom, and to none will give 
Place ever save to me. 

Burghley. Still stands the charge 

On written witness of your secretaries 170 

Great on all points against you. 

Mary Stuart, Wherefore then 

Are not these writers with these writings brought 
To outface me front to front ? For Gilbert Curie, 
He is in the Frenchman's hands a waxen toy, 
Whom the other, once mine uncle's secretary, 175 
The cardinal's of Lorraine, at his mere will 
Moulds, turns, and tempers : being himself a 

knave 
That may be hired or scared with peril or coin 
To swear what thing men bid him. Truth again 
Is this that I deny not, seeing myself 180 

Against all right held fast in English ward, 



Scene I.] ^WC^ ^tttHtt 1 1 9 

I have sought all help where I might hope to find : 

Which thing that I dispute not, let this be 

The sign that I disclaim no jot of truth 

In all objected to me. For the rest, 185 

All majesty that moves in all the world 

And all safe station of all princes born 

Fall, as things unrespected, to the ground. 

If 00 the testimony of secretaries 

And on their writings merely these depend, 190 

Being to their likeness thence debased : for me, 

Nought I delivered to them but what first 

Nature to me delivered, that I might 

Recover yet at length my liberty. 

I am not to be convicted save alone 195 

By mine own word or writing. If these men 

Have written toward the queen my sister's hurt 

Aught, I wist nought of all such writ at all : 

Let them be put to punishment : I am sure. 

Were these here present, they by testimony 200 

Would bring me clear of blame. 

Gaw . Yet by their mean 

They could not in excuse of you deny 
That letters of communion to and fro 
Have passed between you and the Spaniard, 

whence 
What should have come on England and the 

queen 205 

These both well know, and with what messages 



1 20 g^dx^ g)tuart [act m. 

Were English exiles entertained of you 

By mean of these men, of your secretaries, 

Confirmed and cherished in conspiracy 

For this her kingdom's overthrow: in France 210 

Paget and Morgan, traitors in design 

Of one close mind with you, and in your name 

Cheered hence for constant service. 

Mary Stuart. That I sought 

Comfort and furtherance of all Catholic states 
By what mean found soever just and good, 215 

Your mistress from myself had note long since 
And open warning : uncompelled I made 
Avowal of such my righteous purpose, nor 
In aught may disavow it. Of these late plots 
No proof is here to attaint mine innocence, 220 
Who dare all proof against me : Babington 
I know not of, nor Ballard, nor their works. 
But kings my kinsmen, powers that serve the 

church. 
These I confess my comforters, in hope 
Held fast of their alliance. Yet again 225 

I challenge in the witness of my words 
The notes writ of these letters here alleged 
In mine own hand : if these ye bring not for 
Judge all good men if I be not condemned 
In all your hearts already, who perchance 230 

For all this pageant held of lawless law 
Have bound yourselves by pledge to speak me 
dead : 



i 



Scene I.] ^Ht^ ^tUatt 1 2 1 

But I would have you look into your souls. 
Remembering how the theatre of the world 
Is wider, in whose eye ye are judged that judge, ^35 
Than this one realm of England. 

Burgh. Toward that realm 

Suffice it here that, madam, you stand charged 
With deadly purpose : being of proven intent 
Tojiave your son conveyed to Spain, and give 
The title you pretend upon our crown M® 

Up with his wardship to King Philip. 

Mary Stuart. Nay, 

I have no kingdom left to assign, nor crown 
Whereof to make conveyance : yet is this 
But lawful, that of all things which are mine 
I may dispose at pleasure, and to none a45 

Stand on such count accountable. 

Burgh. So be it 

So far as may be : but your ciphers sent 
By Curie's plain testimony to Babington, 
To the lord Lodovic, and to Fernihurst, 
Once provost on your part in Edinburgh 250 

By mean of Grange your friend his father-in-law, 
Speak not but as with tongue imperial, nor 
Of import less than kingdoms. 

Mary Stuart. Surely, sir. 

Such have I writ, and many ; nor therein 
Beyond my birth have trespassed, to commend 255 
That lord you speak of, and another, both 



122 spat^^tuart [acthi. 

My friends in faith, to a cardinal's dignity. 

And that, I trust, without oflFence : except 

It be not held as lawful on my part 

To commune with the chiefest of my creed a6o 

By written word on matters of mine own 

As for your queen with churchfolk of her kind. 

Burgh, Well were it, madam, that with some 
of yours 
You had held less close communion : since by 

proof 
Reiterated from those your secretaries 265 

It seems you know right well that Morgan, who 
Sent Parry privily to despatch the queen. 
And have assigned him annual pension. 

Mary Stuart. This 

I know not, whether or no your charge be truth. 
But I do know this Morgan hath lost all ayo 

For my sake, and in honour sure I am 
That rather to relieve him I stand bound 
Than to revenge an injury done your queen 
By one that lives my friend, and hath deserved 
Well at mine hands : yet, being not bound to this,a75 
I did affright the man from such attempts 
Of crimes against her, who contrariwise 
Hath out of England openly assigned 
Pensions to Gray my traitor, and the Scots 
Mine adversaries, as also to my son, 2,80 

To hire him to forsake me. 

Burgh. Nay, but seeing 



Scene 1.1 ^at^ ^tUatt 1 23 

By negligence of them that steered the state 

The revenues of Scotland sore impaired 

Somewhat in bounty did her grace bestow 

Upon your son the king, her kinsman : whom 285 

She would not, being to her so near of blood. 

Forget from charity. No such help it was 

Nor no such honest service that your friends 

Designed you, who by letters hither writ 

To Paget and Mendoza sent as here 19° 

Large proffers of strange aid from oversea 

To right you by her ruin. 

Mary Stuart. Here was nought 

Aimed for your queen's destruction : nor is this 
Against me to be charged, that foreign friends 
Should labour for my liberty. Thus much 295 

At sundry times I have signified aloud 
By open message to her, that I would still 
Seek mine own freedom. Who shall bar me 

this ? 
Who tax me with unreason, that I sent 
Unjust conditions on my part to be 300 

To her propounded, which now many times 
Have alway found rejection ? yea, when even 
For hostages I proffered in my stead 
To be delivered up with mine own son 
The duke of Guise's, both to stand in pledge 305 
That nor your queen nor kingdom should through 

me 



1 24 ^at^ Stuart [act m. 

Take aught of damage ; so that hence by proof 

I see myself utterly from all hope 

Already barred of freedom. But I now 

Am dealt with most unworthily, whose fame 310 

And honourable repute are called in doubt 

Before such foreign men of law as may 

By miserable conclusions of their craft 

Draw every thin and shallow circumstance 

Out into compass of a consequence : 315 

Whereas the anointed heads and consecrate 

Of princes are not subject to such laws 

As private men are. Next, whereas ye are given 

Authority but to look such matters through 

As tend to the hurt of your queen's person, yet 320 

Here is the cause so handled, and so far 

Here are my letters wrested, that the faith 

Which I profess, the immunity and state 

Of foreign princes, and their private right 

Of mutual speech by word reciprocate 325 

From royal hand to royal, all in one 

Are called in question, and myself by force 

Brought down beneath my kingly dignity 

And made to appear before a judgment-seat 

As one held guilty ; to none end but this, 33° 

All to none other purpose but that I 

Might from all natural favour of the queen 

Be quite excluded, and my right cut off 

From claim hereditary : whereas I stand 



Scene I.] ^at^ ^tUatC 1 2 5 

Here of mine own goodwill to clear myself 335 

Of all objected to me, lest I seem 

To have aught neglected in the full defence 

Of mine own innocency and honour. This 

Would I bring likewise in your minds, how once 

This queen herself of yours, Elizabeth, 34° 

Was drawn in question of conspiracy 

T4iat Wyatt raised against her sister, yet 

Ye know she was most innocent. For me, 

With very heart's religion I affirm, 

Though I desire the Catholics here might stand 345 

Assured of safety, this I would not yet 

Buy with the blood and death of any one. 

And on mine own part rather would I play 

Esther than Judith ; for the people's sake 

To God make intercession, than deprive 3So 

The meanest of the people born of life. 

Mine enemies have made broad report aloud 

That I was irreligious : yet the time 

Has been I would have learnt the faith ye hold, 

But none would suffer me, for all I sought, 355 

To find such teaching at your teachers' hands ; 

As though they cared not what my soul became. 

And now at last, when all ye can ye have done 

Against me, and have barred me from my right. 

Ye may chance fail yet of your cause and hope. 360 

To God and to the princes of my kin 

I make again appeal, from you again 



126 ^ar^ situate [act in. 

Record my protestation, and reject 

All judgment of your court : I had rather die 

Thus undishonoured, even a thousand deaths, 365 

Than so bring down the height of majesty ; 

Yea, and thereby confess myself as bound 

By all the laws of England, even in faith 

Of things religious, who could never learn 

What manner of laws these were : I am destitute 37© 

Of counsellors, and who shall be my peers 

To judge my cause through and give doom thereon 

I am ignorant wholly, being an absolute queen, 

And will do nought which may impair that state 

In me nor other princes, nor my son ; 375 

Since yet my mind is not dejected, nor 

Will I sink under my calamity. 

My notes are taken from me, and no man 

Dares but step forth to be my advocate. 

I am clear from all crime done against the queen, 380 

I have stirred not up one man against her : yet. 

Albeit of many dangers overpast 

I have thoroughly forewarned her, still I found 

No credit, but have always been contemned. 

Though nearest to her in blood allied. When late 385 

Ye made association, and thereon 

An act against their lives on whose behalf. 

Though innocent even as ignorance of it, aught 

Might be contrived to endangering of the queen 

From foreign force abroad, or privy plots 39° 



scKNE I.] £par^ Stuart 1 2 7 

At home of close rebellion, I foresaw 

That, whatsoever of peril so might rise 

Or more than all this for religion's sake, 

My many mortal enemies in her court 

Should lay upon me all the charge, and I 395 

Bear the whole blame of all men. Certainly, 

I well might take it hardly, nor without 

High cause, that such confederacy was made 

With mine own son, and I not knowing : but this 

I speak not of, being not so grieved thereat 400 

As that mine own dear sister, that the queen. 

Is misinformed of me, and I, now kept 

These many years in so strait prison, and grown 

Lame of my limbs, have lien neglected, nor 

For all most reasonable conditions made 405 

Or proffered to redeem my liberty 

Found audience or acceptance : and at last 

Here am I set with none to plead for me. 

But this I pray, that on this matter of mine 

Another meeting there be kept, and I 410 

Be granted on my part an advocate 

To hold my cause up ; or that seeing ye know 

I am a princess, I may be believed 

By mine own word, being princely : for should I 

Stand to your judgment, who most plainly I see4i5 

Are armed against me strong in prejudice. 

It were mine extreme folly : more than this, 

That ever I came to England in such trust 



128 ^ari? §)tuart [act m. 

As of the plighted friendship of your queen 
And comfort of her promise. Look, my lords, 420 
Here on this ring : her pledge of love was this 
And surety sent me when I lay in bonds 
Of mine own rebels once : regard it well : 
In trust of this I came amongst you : none 
But sees what faith I have found to keep this 
trust. 425 

Burgh. Whereas I bear a double person, being 
Commissioner first, then counsellor in this 

cause. 
From me as from the queen's commissioner here 
Receive a few words first. Your protest made 
Is now on record, and a transcript of it 43® 

Shall be delivered you. To us is given 
Under the queen's hand our authority, whence 
Is no appeal, this grant being ratified 
With the great seal of England ; nor are we 
With prejudice come hither, but to judge 435 

By the straight rule of justice. On their part, 
These the queen's learned counsel here in place 
Do level at nothing else but that the truth 
May come to light, how far you have made 

offence 
Against the person of the queen. To us 44© 

Full power is given to hear and diligently 
Examine all the matter, though yourself 
Were absent : yet for this did we desire 



Scene 1.1 ^ar^ ^tUatt 1 29 

To have your presence here, lest we might seem 
To have derogated from your honour : nor 445 
Designed to object against you anything 
But what you knew of, or took part therein, 
Against the queen's life bent. For this were 

these 
Your letters brought in question, but to unfold 
Yowr aim against her person, and therewith 45° 
All matters to it belonging ; which perforce 
Are so with other matters interlaced 
As none may sever them. Hence was there 

need 
Set all these forth, not parcels here and there, 
Whose circumstances do the assurance give 455 
Upon what points you dealt with Babington. 
Mary Stuart, The circumstances haply may 

find proof. 
But the fact never. Mine integrity 
Nor on the memory nor the credit hangs 
Of these my secretaries, albeit I know 460 

They are men of honest hearts : yet if they have 
Confessed in fear of torture anything 
Or hope of guerdon and impunity. 
It may not be admitted, for just cause. 
Which I will otherwhere allege. Men's minds 465 
Are with affections diversly distraught 
And borne about of passion : nor would these 
Have ever avowed such things against me, save 



130 ^ar^ Stuart [actih. 

For their own hope and profit. Letters may 
Toward other hands be outwardly addressed 47° 
Than they were writ for : yea, and many times 
Have many things been privily slipped in mine 
Which from my tongue came never. Were I not 
Reft of my papers, and my secretary 
Kept from me, better might I then confute 475 
These things cast up against me. 

Burgh, But there shall 

Be nothing brought against you save what last 
Stands charged, even since the nineteenth day 

of June : 
Nor would your papers here avail you, seeing 
Your secretaries, and Babington himself, 480 

Being of the rack unquestioned, have affirmed 
You sent those letters to him ; which though 

yourself 
Deny, yet whether more belief should here 
On affirmation or negation hang 
Let the commissioners judge. But, to come 

back, 485 

This next I tell you as a counsellor, 
Time after time you have put forth many things 
Propounded for your freedom ; that all these 
Have fallen all profitless, 't is long of you. 
And of the Scots ; in no wise of the queen. 490 
For first the lords of Scotland, being required, 
Flatly refused, to render up the king 



Scene I.J ^ar^ ^tUatt 1 3 1 

In hostage : and when treaty last was held 
Upon your freedom, then was Parry sent 
By your dependant Morgan privily 495 

To make the queen away by murder. 

Mary Stuart. Ah ! 

You are my adversary. 

Burgh, Yea, surely I am 

To -the queen's adversaries an adversary. 
But now hereof enough : let us proceed 
Henceforth to proofs. 

Mary Stuart, I will not hear them. 

Burgh. Yet 500 

Hear them will we. 

Mary Stuart, And in another place 

I too will hear them, and defend myself. 

Gaw. First let your letters to Charles Paget ' 
speak, 
Wherein you show him there is none other way 
For Spain to bring the Netherlands again 505 

To the old obedience, but by setting up 
A prince in England that might help his cause : 
Then to Lord Paget, to bring hastilier 
His forces up for help to invade this land : 
And Cardinal Allen's letter, hailing you 510 

His most dread sovereign lady, and signifying 
The matter to the Prince of Parma's care 
To be commended. 

Mary Stuart, I am so sore beset 



132 ^m&tmtt [AcTin. 

I know not how by point and circumstance 

To meet your manifold impeachments : this 5^5 

I see through all this charge for evil truth, 

That Babington and my two secretaries 

Have even to excuse themselves accused me : 

yet, 

As touching that conspiracy, this I say, 

Of those six men for execution chosen 520 

I never heard : and all the rest is nought 

To this pretended purpose of your charge. 

For Cardinal Allen, whatsoe'er he have writ, 

I hold him for a reverend prelate, so 

To be esteemed, no more : none save the Pope 525 

Will I acknowledge for the church's head 

And sovereign thence on thought or spirit of 

mine : 
But in what rank and place I stand esteemed 
Of him and foreign princes through the world 
I know not : neither can I hinder them 530 

By letters writ of their own hearts and hands 
To hail me queen of England. As for those 
Whose duty and plain allegiance sworn to me 
Stands flawed in all men's sight, my secretaries. 
These merit no belief. They which have once 535 
Forsworn themselves, albeit they swear again 
With oaths and protestations ne'er so great. 
Are not to be believed. Nor may these men 
By what sworn oath soever hold them bound 



Scene I.] ^^V^ ^tmtt 1 33 

In court of conscience, seeing they have sworn 

to me 540 

Their secrecy and fidelity before, 
And are no subjects of this country. Nau 
Hath many times writ other than I bade, 
And Curie sets down whatever Nau bids him 

write ; 
But^for my part I am ready in all to bear 545 

The burden of their fault, save what may lay 
A blot upon mine honour. Haply too 
These things did they confess to save themselves ; 
Supposing their avowal could hurt not me. 
Who, being a queen, they thought, good ignorant 

men, 55° 

More favourably must needs be dealt withal. 
For Ballard, I ne'er heard of any such. 
But of one Hallard once that proffered me 
Such help as I would none of, knowing this man 
Had vowed his service too to Walsingham. 555 
Gaw. Next, from your letters to Mendoza, 

writ 
By Curie, as freely his confession shows. 
In privy cipher, take these few brief notes 
For perfect witness of your full design. 
You find yourself, the Spaniard hears thereby, 560 
Sore troubled what best course to take anew 
For your affairs this side the sea, whereon 
Charles Paget hath a charge to impart from you 



134 ^ar^ Stuart [acthi. 

Some certain overtures to Spain and him 

In your behalf, whom you desire with prayer 565 

Show freely what he thinks may be obtained 

Thus from the king his master. One point more 

Have you reserved thereon depending, which 

On your behalf you charge him send the king 

Some secret word concerning, no man else, 570 

If this be possible, being privy to it : 

Even this, that seeing your son's great obstinacy 

In heresy, and foreseeing too sure thereon 

Most imminent danger and harm thence like to 

ensue 
To the Catholic church, he coming to bear rule 575 
Within this kingdom, you are resolved at heart 
In case your son be not reduced again 
To the Catholic faith before your death, whereof 
Plainly you say small hope is yours so long 
As he shall bide in Scotland, to give up 580 

To that said king, and grant in absolute right, 
Your claim upon succession to this crown. 
By your last will made; praying him on this 

cause 
From that time forth wholly to take yourself 
Into his keeping, and therewith the state 585 

And charge of all this country : which, you say, 
You cannot for discharge of conscience think 
That you could put into a prince's hands 
More zealous for your faith, and abler found 



Scene L] g^W^ ^tUatt 1 35 

To build it strong upon this side again, 59° 

Even as through all parts else of Christendom. 
But this let silence keep in secret, lest 
Being known it be your dowry's loss in France, 
And open breach in Scotland with your son. 
And in this realm of England utterly 595 

Your ruin and destruction. On your part 
Next is he bidden thank his lord the king 
For liberal grace and sovereign favour shown 
Lord Paget and his brother, which you pray him 
Most earnestly to increase, and gratify 600 

Poor Morgan with some pension for your sake 
Who hath not for your sake only endured so much 
But for the common cause. Likewise, and last, 
Is one he knows commended to his charge 
With some more full supply to be sustained 605 
Than the entertainment that yourself allot 
According to the little means you have. 

Burgh, Hereon stands proof apparent of that 
charge 
Which you but now put by, that you design 
To give your right supposed upon this realm 610 
Into the Spaniard's hold; and on that cause 
Lie now at Rome Allen and Parsons, men 
Your servants and our traitors. 

Mary Stuart. No such proof 

Lives but by witness of revolted men. 
My traitors and your helpers ; who to me 615 



136 ^ar^ Stuart [Acrm. 

Have broken their allegiance bound by oath. 
When being a prisoner clothed about with cares 
I languished out of hope of liberty, 
Nor yet saw hope to effect of those things aught 
Which many and many looked for at my hands, 620 
Declining now through age and sickness, this 
To some seemed good, even for religion's sake. 
That the succession here of the English crown 
Should or be stablished in the Spanish king 
Or in some English Catholic. And a book 625 
Was sent to me to avow the Spaniard's claim ; 
Which being of me allowed not, some there were 
In whose displeasure thence I fell ; but now 
Seeing all my hope in England desperate grown, 
I am fully minded to reject no aid 630 

Abroad, but resolute to receive it. 

Walsingham, Sirs, 

Bethink you, were the kingdom so conveyed. 
What should become of you and all of yours, 
Estates and honours and posterities, 
Being to such hands delivered. 

Burgh. Nay, but these 635 

In no such wise can be conveyed away 
By personal will, but by successive right 
Still must descend in heritage of law. 
Whereto your own words witness, saying if this 
Were blown abroad your cause were utterly 640 
Lost in all hearts of English friends. Therein 



Scene!.] ^Ut^ ^tmtt 137 

Your thoughts hit right : for here in all men's 

minds 
That are not mad with envying at the truth 
Death were no loathlier than a stranger king. 
If you would any more, speak : if not aught, 64s 
This cause is ended. 

Mary Stuart. I require again 

Before a full and open parliament 
Hea'ring, or speech in person with the queen, 
Who shall, I hope, have of a queen regard, 
And with the council. So, in trust hereof, 650 

I crave a word with some of you apart. 
And of this main assembly take farewell. 

END OF THE THIRD ACT. 



ACT IV 
ELIZABETH 



ACT IV. 

Scene I. — Richmond, 

Walsingham and Davison. 

Wahingham. It is God's wrath, too sure, that 
holds her hand ; 
His plague upon this people, to preserve 
By her sole mean her deadliest enemy, known 
By proof more potent than approof of law 
In all points guilty, but on more than all 5 

Toward all this country dangerous. To take off 
From the court held last month at Fotheringay 
Authority with so full commission given 
To pass upon her judgment — suddenly 
Cut short by message of some three lines writ lo 
With hurrying hand at midnight, and despatched 
To maim its work upon the second day. 
What else may this be in so wise a queen 
But madness, as a brand to sear the brain 
Of one by God infatuate ? yea, and now 15 

That she receives the French ambassador 
With one more special envoy from his king. 
Except their message touch her spleen with fire 
And so undo itself, we cannot tell 
What doubt may work upon her. Had we but 20 
Some sign more evident of some private seal 



142 ^nr^ Stuart [act iv. 

Confirming toward her by more personal proof 
The Scottish queen's inveteracy, for this 
As for our country plucked from imminent death 
We might thank God : but with such gracious 

words 
Of piteous challenge and imperial plea 
She hath wrought by letter on our mistress' mind, 
We may not think her judgment so could slip. 
Borne down with passion or forgetfulness, 
As to leave bare her bitter root of heart 
And core of evil will there labouring. 

Davison, Yet 

I see no shade of other surety cast 
From any sign of likelihood. It were 
Not shameful more than dangerous, though she 

bade. 
To have her prisoner privily made away ; 
Yet stands the queen's heart wellnigh fixed hereon 
When aught may seem to fix it ; then as fast 
Wavers, but veers to that bad point again 
Whence blowing the wind blows down her 

honour, nor 
Brings surety of life with fame's destruction. 

PFaL Ay, 

We are no Catholic keepers, and his charge 
Need fear no poison in our watch-dog's fang, 
Though he show honest teeth at her, to threat 
Thieves' hands with loyal danger. 



Scene IJ ^Hf^ ^tUait I43 

Enter Queen Elizabeth^ attended by Burghleyy Lei- 
cester, Huns don, Hatton, and others of the Council. 

Elizabeth. No, my lords, 

We are not so weak of wit as men that need 45 
Be counselled of their enemies. Blame us not 
That we accuse your friendship on this cause 
Of too much fearfulness : France we will hear, 
Nor doubt but France shall hear us all as loud 
As friend or foe may threaten or protest, 5° 

Of our own heart advised, and resolute more 
Than hearts that need men's counsel. Bid them in. 

Enter Chateauneuf and Bellievre, attended. 
From our fair cousin of France what message, 

sirs ? 
Bellievre. I, madam, have in special charge to 

lay 
The king's mind open to your majesty, 55 

Which gives my tongue first leave of speech 

more free 
Than from a common envoy. Sure it is. 
No man more grieves at what his heart abhors. 
The counsels of your highness' enemies. 
Than doth the king of France : wherein how far 60 
The queen your prisoner have borne part, or may 
Seem of their works partaker, he can judge 
Nought : but much less the king may understand 
What men may stand accusers, who rise up 
Judge in so great a matter. Men of law 65 



144 ^ar^ §>tttart [act iv. 

May lay their charges on a subject : but 

The queen of Scotland, dowager queen of France, 

And sister made by wedlock to the king, 

To none being subject, can be judged of none 

Without such violence done on rule as breaks 70 

Prerogative of princes. Nor may man 

That looks upon your present majesty 

In such clear wise apparent, and retains 

Remembrance of your name through all the world 

For virtuous wisdom, bring his mind to think 75 

That England's royal-souled Elizabeth, 

Being set so high in fame, can so forget 

Wise Plato's word, that common souls are 

wrought 
Out of dull iron and slow lead, but kings 
Of gold untempered with so vile alloy 80 

As makes all metal up of meaner men. 
But say this were not thus, and all men's awe 
Were from all time toward kingship merely vain, 
And state no more worth reverence, yet the plea 
Were nought which here your ministers pretend, 85 
That while the queen of Scots lives you may live 
No day that knows not danger. Were she dead, 
Rather might then your peril wax indeed 
To shape and sense of heavier portent, whom 
The Catholic states now threat not, nor your land, 90 
For this queen's love, but rather for their faith's, 
Whose cause, were she by violent hand removed. 



Scene I] ^^t^ ^tUM 145 

Could be but furthered, and its enterprise 

Put on more strong and prosperous pretext ; yea, 

You shall but draw the invasion on this land 95 

Whose threat you so may think to stay, and bring 

Imminence down of inroad. Thus far forth 

The queen of Scots hath for your person been 

Even as a targe or buckler which has caught 

All intercepted shafts against your state 100 

Shot, or a stone held fast within your hand, 

Which, if you cast it thence in fear or wrath 

To smite your adversary, is cast away. 

And no mean left therein for menace. If 

You lay but hand upon her life, albeit 105 

There were that counselled this, her death will 

make 
Your enemies weapons of their own despair 
And give their whetted wrath excuse and edge 
More plausibly to strike more perilously. 
Your grace is known for strong in foresight : we no 
These nineteen years of your wise reign have 

kept 
Fast watch in France upon you : of those claims 
Which lineally this queen here prisoner may 
Put forth on your succession have you made 
The stoutest rampire of your rule: and this 115 
Is grown a byword with us, that their cause 
Who shift the base whereon their policies lean 
Bows down toward ruin : and of loyal heart 



146 ^ar^ §>tttart [act iv. 

This will I tell you, madam, which hath been 
Given me for truth assured of one whose place 120 
Affirms him honourable, how openly 
A certain prince's minister that well 
May stand in your suspicion says abroad 
That for his master's greatness it were good 
The queen of Scots were lost already, seeing 125 
He is well assured the Catholics here should then 
All wholly range them on his master's part. 
Thus long hath reigned your highness happily. 
Who have loved fair temperance more than 

violence : now. 
While honour bids have mercy, wisdom holds 130 
Equal at least the scales of interest. Think 
What name shall yours be found in time far 

hence. 
Even as you deal with her that in your hand 
Lies not more subject than your fame to come 
In men's repute that shall be. Bid her live, 135 
And ever shall my lord stand bound to you 
And you for ever firm in praise of men. 

Eliz. I am sorry, sir, you are hither come 

from France 
Upon no better errand. I appeal 
To God for judge between my cause and hers 140 
Whom here you stand for. In this realm of mine 
The queen of Scots sought shelter, and therein 
Hath never found but kindness ; for which grace 



Scene I] ^Ht^ ^tmXt 147 

In recompense she hath three times sought my 

life. 
No grief that on this head yet ever fell HS 

Shook ever from mine eyes so many a tear 
As this last plot upon it. I have read 
As deep I doubt me in as many books 
As any queen or prince in Christendom, 
Yet never chanced on aught so strange and sad 150 
As this my state's calamity. Mine own life 
Is by mere nature precious to myself, 
And in mine own realm I can live not safe. 
I am a poor lone woman, girt about 
With secret enemies that perpetually ^S5 

Lay wait for me to kill me. From your king 
Why have not I my traitor to my hands 
Delivered up, who now this second time 
Hath sought to slay me, Morgan ? On my part. 
Had mine own cousin Hunsdon here conspired 160 
Against the French king's life, he had found 

not so 
Refuge of me, nor even for kindred's sake 
From the edge of law protection : and this cause 
Needs present evidence of this man's mouth. 
Bell. Madam, there stand against the queen 

of Scots 165 

Already here in England on this charge 
So many and they so dangerous witnesses 
No need can be to bring one over more : 



148 ^ar^ Stuart [act iv. 

Nor can the king show such unnatural heart 

As to send hither a knife for enemies' hands 170 

To cut his sister's throat. Most earnestly 

My lord expects your resolution : which 

If we receive as given against his plea, 

I must crave leave to part for Paris hence. 

Yet give me pardon first if yet once more ^75 

I pray your highness be assured, and so 

Take heed in season, you shall find this queen 

More dangerous dead than living. Spare her life, 

And not my lord alone but all that reign 

Shall be your sureties in all Christian lands 180 

Against all scathe of all conspiracies 

Made on her party : while such remedies' ends 

As physic states with bloodshedding, to cure 

Danger by death, bring fresh calamities 

Far oftener forth than the old are healed of them 185 

Which so men thought to medicine. To refrain 

From that red-handed way of rule, and set 

Justice no higher than mercy sits beside. 

Is the first mean of kings' prosperity 

That would reign long : nor will my lord believe 190 

Your highness could put ofF yourself so much 

As to reverse and tread upon the law 

That you thus long have kept and honourably : 

But should this perilous purpose hold right on, 

I am bounden by my charge to say, the king 195 

Will not regard as liable to your laws 



Scene L] ^dit^ ^tUart 149 

A queen's imperial person, nor will hold 
Her death as but the general wrong of kings 
And no more his than as his brethren's all, 
But as his own and special injury done, 200 

More than to these injurious. 

Eliz. Doth your lord 

Bid you speak thus ? 

Bell. Ay, madam : from his mouth 

Had I command what speech to use. 

Eiiz. You have done 

Better to speak than he to send it. Sir, 
You shall not presently depart this land 105 

As one denied of mere discourtesy. 
I will return an envoy of mine own 
To speak for me at Paris with the king. 
You shall bear back a letter from my hand. 
And give your lord assurance, having seen, a 10 
I cannot be so frighted with men's threats 
That they shall not much rather move my mind 
To quicken than to slack the righteous doom 
Which none must think by menace to put back. 
Or daunt it with defiance. Sirs, good day. 215 

Exeunt Ambassadors^ 
I were as one belated with false lights 
If I should think to steer my darkling way 
By twilight furtherance of their wiles and words. 
Think you, my lords, France yet would have 
her live ? 



ISO ^ar^ Stuart [activ. 

Burghley, If there be other than the apparent 
end aao 

Hid in this mission to your majesty, 
Mine envoys can by no means fathom it, 
Who deal for me at Paris : fear of Spain 
Lays double hand as 't were upon the king. 
Lest by removal of the queen of Scots 225 

A way be made for peril in the claim 
More potent then of Philip ; and if there come 
From his Farnese note of enterprise 
Or danger this way tending, France will yet 
Cleave to your friendship though his sister die. 230 

Elix, So, in your mind, this half-souled bro- 
ther would 
Steer any way that might keep safe his sail 
Against a southern wind, which here, he thinks. 
Her death might strengthen from the north again 
To blow against him ofF our subject straits, 23s 
Made servile then and Spanish ? Yet perchance 
There swells behind our seas a heart too high 
To bow more easily down, and bring this land 
More humbly to such handling, than their waves 
Bow down to ships of strangers, or their storms 240 
To breath of any lord on earth but God. 
What thinks our cousin ? 

Huns don. That if Spain or France 

Or both be stronger than the heart in us 
Which beats to battle ere they menace, why. 



Scene I.] ^WP^ ^tmtt 15 1 

In God's name, let them rise and make their prey 245 
Of what was England : but if neither be, 
The smooth-cheeked French man-harlot, nor that 

hand 
Which holp to light Rome's fires with English 

limbs. 
Let us not keep to make their weakness strong 
A pestilence here alive in England, which 250 

Gives force to their faint enmities, and burns 
Half the heart out of loyal trust and hope 
With heat that kindles treason. 

Eliz. By this light, 

I have heard worse counsel from a wise man's 

tongue 
Than this clear note of forthright soldiership. 255 
How say you, Dudley, to it ? 

Leicester, Madam, ere this 

You have had my mind upon the matter, writ 
But late from Holland, that no public stroke 
Should fall upon this princess, who may be 
By privy death more happily removed 260 

Without impeach of majesty, nor leave 
A sign against your judgment, to call down 
Blame of strange kings for wrong to kingship 

wrought 
Though right were done to justice. 

Elix. Of your love 

We know it is that comes this counsel ; nor, 265 



152 ^ar^ ^tuait [act iv. 

Had we such friends of all our servants, need 
Our mind be now distraught with dangerous 

doubts 
That find no screen from dangers. Yet meseems 
One doubt stands now removed, if doubt there 

were 
Of aught from Scotland ever : Walsingham, 270 
You should have there intelligence whereof 
To make these lords with us partakers. 

WaL Nay, 

Madam, no more than from a trustless hand 
Protest and promise : of those twain that come 
Hot on these Frenchmen's heels in embassy, 275 
He that in counsel on this cause was late 
One with my lord of Leicester now, to rid 
By draught of secret death this queen away. 
Bears charge to say as these gone hence have said 
In open audience, but by personal note ago 

Hath given me this to know, that howsoe'er 
His king indeed desire her life be spared 
Much may be wrought upon him, would your 

grace 
More richly line his ragged wants with gold 
And by full utterance of your parliament 285 

Approve him heir in England. 

Eli%, Ay ! no more ? 

God's blood ! what grace is proffered us at need. 
And on what mild conditions ! Say I will not 



Scene IJ g^Ut^ ^trXWCt 1 5 3 

Redeem such perils at so dear a price, 
Shall not our pensioner too join hands with France 290 
And pay my gold with iron barter back 
At edge of sword he dares not look upon. 
They tell us, for the scathe and scare he took 
Even in this woman's womb when shot and steel 
Undid the manhood in his veins unborn 295 

And left his tongue's threats handless? 

fP^L Men there be 

Your majesty must think, who bear but ill. 
For pride of country and high-heartedness. 
To see the king they serve your servant so 
That not his mother's life and once their queen's 30° 
Being at such point of peril can enforce 
One warlike word of his for chance of war 
Conditional against you. Word came late 
From Edinburgh that there the citizens 
With hoot and hiss had bayed him through the 

streets 305 

As he went heartless by ; of whom they had heard 
This published saying, that in his personal mind 
The blood of kindred or affinity 
So much not binds us as the friendship pledged 
To them that are not of our blood : and this 3 10 
Stands clear for certain, that no breath of war 
Shall breathe from him against us though she die, 
Except his titular claim be reft from him 
On our succession : and that all his mind 



154 ^ar^ Stuart [activ. 

Is but to reign unpartnered with a power 3 

Which should weigh down that half his king- 
dom's weight 
Left to his hand's share nominally in hold : 
And for his mother, this would he desire, 
That she were kept from this day to her death 
Close prisoner in one chamber, never more 3 
To speak with man or woman : and hereon 
That proclamation should be made of her 
As of one subject formally declared 
To the English law whereby, if she ofFend 
Again with iterance of conspiracy, 3 

She shall not as a queen again be tried. 
But as your vassal and a private head 
Live liable to the doom and stroke of death, 
^//z. She is bounden to him as he long since 
to her. 
Who would have given his kingdom up at leasts 
To his dead father's slayer, in whose red hand 
How safe had lain his life too doubt may guess. 
Which yet kept dark her purpose then on him. 
Dark now no more to usward. Think you then 
That they belie him, whose suspicion saith 3 

His ear and heart are yet inclined to Spain, 
If from that brother-in-law that was of ours 
And would have been our bridegroom he may win 
Help of strange gold and foreign soldiership. 
With Scottish furtherance of those Catholic lords 3 



Scene 1.1 ^WC^ ^tUm 155 

Who are stronger-spirited in their faith than ours, 
Being harried more of heretics, as they say, 
Than these within our borders, to root out 
The creed there stablished now, and do to death 
Its ministers, with all the lords their friends, 345 
Lay hands on all strong places there, and rule 
As prince upon their party ? since he fain 
Fronr ours would be divided, and cast in 
His lot with Rome against us too, from these 
Might he but earn assurance of their faith, 35° 

Revolting from his own. May these things be 
More than mere muttering breath of trustless lies, 
And half his heart yet hover toward our side 
For all such hope or purpose ? 

fFal. Of his heart 

We know not, madam, surely ; nor doth he 355 
Who follows fast on their first envoy sent. 
And writes to excuse him of his message here 
On her behalf apparent, but in sooth 
Aimed otherwise ; the Master I mean of Gray, 
Who swears me here by letter, if he be not 360 
True to the queen of England, he is content 
To have his head fall on a scaffold : saying. 
To put from him this charge of embassy 
Had been his ruin, but the meaning of it 
Is modest and not menacing : whereto 365 

If you will yield not yet to spare the life 
So near its forfeit now, he thinks it well 



156 ^ar^ Stuart [activ. 

You should be pleased by some commission given 
To stay by the way his comrade and himself, 
Or bid them back. 

Elix. What man is this then, sent: 

With such a knave to fellow ? 

JVaL No such knave. 

But still your prisoner's friend of old time found : 
Sir Robert Melville. 

Elix, And an honest man 

As faith might wish her servants : but what pledge 
Will these produce me for security 
That I may spare this dangerous life and live 
Unscathed of after practice ? 

Wal. As I think. 

The king's self and his whole nobility 
Will be her personal pledges ; and her son. 
If England yield her to his hand in charge. 
On no less strait a bond will undertake 
For her safe keeping. 

Eli%» That were even to arm 

With double power mine adversary, and make him 
The stronger by my hand to do me hurt — 
Were he mine adversary indeed : which yet 
I will not hold him. Let them find a mean 
For me to live unhurt and save her life, 
It shall well please me. Say this king of Scots 
Himself would give his own inheritance up 
Pretended in succession, if but once 



Scene IJ ^Ht^ ^tUatt 157 

Her hand were found or any friend's of hers 

Again put forth upon me for her sake, 

Why, haply so might hearts be satisfied 

Of lords and commons then to let her live. 

But this I doubt he had rather take her life 395 

Himself than yield up to us for pledge : and less, 

These men shall know of me, I will not take 

In price of her redemption : which were else, 

And haply may in no wise not be held. 

To this my loyal land and mine own trust 400 

A deadlier stroke and blast of sound more dire 

Than noise of fleets invasive. 

Wal. Surely so 

Would all hearts hold it, madam, in that land 
That are not enemies of the land and yours ; 
For ere the doom had been proclaimed an hour4o5 
Which gave to death your main foe's head and 

theirs 
Yourself have heard what fire of joy brake forth 
From all your people : how their church-towers all 
Rang in with jubilant acclaim of bells 
The day that bore such tidings, and the night 410 
That laughed aloud with lightning of their joy 
And thundered round its triumph : twice twelve 

hours 
This tempest of thanksgiving roared and shone 
Sheer from the Solway's to the Channel's foam 
With light as from one festal-flaming hearth 4*5 



158 ^ar^&tuart [activ. 

And sound as of one trumpet : not a tongue 
But praised God for it, or heart that leapt not up. 
Save of your traitors and their country's : these 
Withered at heart and shrank their heads in close. 
As though the bright sun's were a basilisk's eye, 4 
And light, that gave all others comfort, flame 
And smoke to theirs of hell's own darkness, whence 
Such eyes were blinded or put out with fire. 

Eli%, Yea, I myself,! mind me, might not sleep 
Those twice twelve hours thou speak'st of. By 

God's light, 4 

Be it most in love of me or fear of her 
I know not, but my people seems in sooth 
Hot and an hungered on this trail of hers : 
Nor is it a people bloody-minded, used 
To lap the life up of an enemy's vein i 

Who bleeds to death unweaponed : our good 

hounds 
Will course a quarry soldierlike in war, 
But rage not hangmanlike upon the prey. 
To flesh their fangs on limbs that strive not : yet 
Their hearts are hotter on this course than mine,^ 
Which most was deadliest aimed at. 

Wal. Even for that 

How should not theirs be hot as fire from hell 
To burn your danger up and slay that soul 
Alive that seeks it ? Thinks your majesty 
There beats a heart where treason hath not turned- 



Scene I.] ^^W^^ ^tUJSitt 159 

All English blood to poison, which would feel 
No deadlier pang of dread more deathful to it 
To hear of yours endangered than to feel 
A sword against its own life bent, or know 
Death imminent as darkness overhead 445 

That takes the noon from one man's darkening 

eye 
As must your death from all this people's ? You 
Are very England : in your light of life 
This living land of yours walks only safe, 
And all this breathing people with your breath 45«> 
Breathes unenslaved, and draws at each pulse in 
Freedom : your eye is light of theirs, your word 
As God's to comfort England, whose whole soul 
Is made with yours one, and her witness you 
That Rome or hell shall take not hold on her 455 
Again till God be wroth with us so much 
As to reclaim for heaven the star that yet 
Lights all your land that looks on it, and gives 
Assurance higher than danger dares assail 
Save in this lady's name and service, who 460 

Must now from you take judgment. 

Eliz. Must ! by God, 

I know not must but as a word of mine. 
My tongue's and not mine ear's familiar. Sirs, 
Content yourselves to know this much of us. 
Or having known remember, that we sent 465 

The Lord of Buckhurst and our servant Beale 



i6o ^ar^ §)tttart [activ. 

To acquaint this queen our prisoner with the 

doom 
Confirmed on second trial against her, saying 
Her word can weigh not down the weightier guilt 
Approved upon her, and by parliament 
Since fortified with sentence. Yea, my lords. 
Ye should forget not how by message then 
I bade her know of me with what strong force 
Of strenuous and invincible argument 
I am urged to hold no more in such delay 
The process of her execution, being 
The seed-plot of these late conspiracies. 
Their author and chief motive : and am told 
That if I yield not mine the guilt must be 
In God's and in the whole world's suffering sights 
Of all the miseries and calamities 
To ensue on my refusal : whence, albeit 
I know not yet how God shall please to incline 
My heart on that behalf, I have thought it meet 
In conscience yet that she should be forewarned,^ 
That so she might bethink her of her sins 
Done both toward God offensive and to me 
And pray for grace to be true penitent 
For all these faults : which, had the main fault 

reached 
No further than mine own poor person, God i, 
Stands witness with what truth my heart pro- 
tests 



Scene L] ^W^ ^tUntt 1 6 1 

I freely would have pardoned. She to this 
Makes bitter answer as of desperate heart 
All we may wreak our worst upon her ; whom 
Having to death condemned, we may fulfil 495 
Our wicked work, and God in Paradise 
With just atonement shall requite her. This 
Ye see is all the pardon she will ask, 
Being only, and even as 't were with prayer, 

desired 
To crave of us forgiveness : and thereon 5°° 

Being by Lord Buckhurst charged on this point 

home 
That by her mean the Catholics here had learnt 
To hold her for their sovereign, on which cause 
Nor my religion nor myself might live 
Uncharged with danger while her life should last, 505 
She answering gives God thanks aloud to be 
Held of so great account upon his side. 
And in God's cause and in the church of God's 
Rejoicingly makes offering of her life; 
Which I, God knows how unrejoicingly, 5 10 

Can scarce, ye tell me, choose but take, or yield 
At least for you to take it. Yet, being told 
It is not for religion she must die. 
But for a plot by compass of her own 
Laid to dethrone me and destroy, she casts 515 
Again this answer barbed with mockery back. 
She was not so presumptuous born, to aspire 



1 62 £par^ Stuart [activ. 

To two such ends yet ever : yea, so far 
She dwelt from such desire removed in heart. 
She would not have me suffer by her will 
The fillip of a finger : though herself 
Be persecuted even as David once 
And her mishap be that she cannot so 
Fly by the window forth as David : whence 
It seems she likens us to Saul, and looks 
Haply to see us as on Mount Gilboa fallen, 
Where yet, for all the shooters on her side, 
Our shield shall be not vilely cast away. 
As of one unanointed. Yet, my lords. 
If England might but by my death attain 
A state more flourishing with a better prince. 
Gladly would I lay down my life ; who have 
No care save only for my people's sake 
To keep it : for myself, in all the world 
I see no great cause why for all this coil 
I should be fond to live or fear to die. 
If I should say unto you that I mean 
To grant not your petition, by my faith. 
More should I so say haply than I mean : 
Or should I say I mean to grant it, this 
Were, as I think, to tell you of my mind 
More than is fit for you to know : and thus 
I must for all petitionary prayer 
Deliver you an answer answerless. 
Yet will I pray God lighten my dark mind 



Scene U] ^WC^ ^tUHtt 1 63 

That being illumined it may thence foresee 
What for his church and all this commonwealth 
May most be profitable : and this once known, 
My hand shall halt not long behind his will. 

Scene II. — Fotberingay. 
^ Sir Amyas Paulet and Sir Drew Drury, 

Paulet, I never gave God heartier thanks than 
these 
I give to have you partner of my charge 
Now most of all, these letters being to you 
No less designed than me, and you in heart 
One with mine own upon them. Certainly, 5 

When I put hand to pen this morning past 
That Master Davison by mine evidence 
Might note what sore disquietudes I had 
To increase my griefs before of body and mind, 
I looked for no such word to cut off mine 10 

As these to us both of Walsingham's and his. 
Would rather yet I had cause to still complain 
Of those unanswered letters two months past 
Than thus be certified of such intents 
As God best knoweth I never sought to know, 15 
Or search out secret causes : though to hear 
Nothing at all did breed, as I confessed. 
In me some hard conceits against myself, 
I had rather yet rest ignorant than ashamed 



1 64 ^ar^g>tuart [activ. 

Of such ungracious knowledge. This shall be 
Fruit as I think of dread wrought on the queen 
By those seditious rumours whose report 
Blows fear among the people lest our charge 
Escape our trust, or as they term it now 
Be taken away, — such apprehensive tongues 
So phrase it, — and her freedom strike men's 

hearts 
More deep than all these flying fears that say 
London is fired of Papists, or the Scots 
Have crossed in arms the Border, or the north 
Is risen again rebellious, or the Guise 
Is disembarked in Sussex, or that now 
In Milford Haven rides a Spanish fleet — 
All which, albeit but footless floating lies. 
May all too easily smite and work too far 
Even on the heart most royal in the world 
That ever was a woman's. 

Drury. Good my friend. 

These noises come without a thunderbolt 
In such dense air of dusk expectancy 
As all this land lies under ; nor will some 
Doubt or think much to say of those reports 
They are broached and vented of men's cred- 
ulous mouths 
Whose ears have caught them from such lips as 

meant 
Merely to strike more terror in the queen 



Scene n.] ^Ht^ ^tUatt 1 65 

And wring that warrant from her hovering hand 
Which falters yet and flutters on her lip 45 

While the hand hangs and trembles half ad- 
vanced 
Upon that sentence which, the treasurer said, 
Should well ere this have spoken, seeing it was 
More than a full month old and four days more 
When he so looked to hear the word of it 5° 

Which yet lies sealed of silence. 

PauL Will you say, 

Or any as wise and loyal, say or think 
It was but for a show, to scare men's wits. 
They have raised this hue and cry upon her flight 
Supposed from hence, to waken Exeter 55 

With noise from Honiton and Sampfield spread 
Of proclamation to detain all ships 
And lay all highways for her day and night. 
And send like precepts out four manner of ways 
From town to town, to make in readiness 60 

Their armour and artillery, with all speed, 
On pain of death, for London by report 
Was set on fire ? though, God be therefore 

praised. 
We know this is not, yet the noise hereof 
Were surely not to be neglected, seeing 65 

There is, meseems, indeed no readier way 
To levy forces for the achieving that 
Which so these lewd reporters feign to fear. 



1 66 ^dX^ g>tUart [Act IV. 

Drury. Why, in such mighty matters and such 
mists 
Wise men may think what hardly fools would say^ 
And eyes get glimpse of more than sight hath 

leave 
To give commission for the babbling tongue 
Aloud to cry they have seen. This noise that was 
Upon one Arden's flight, a traitor, whence 
Fear flew last week all round us, gave but note 
How lightly may men's minds take fire, and words 
Take wing that have no feet to fare upon 
More solid than a shadow. 

PauL Nay, he was 

Escaped indeed : and every day thus brings 
Forth its new mischief: as this last month did 
Those treasons of the French ambassador 
Designed against our mistress, which God's grace 
Laid by the knave's mean bare to whom they 

sought 
For one to slay her, and of the Pope's hand earn 
Ten thousand blood-encrusted crowns a year 
To his most hellish hire. You will not say 
This too was merely fraud or vision wrought 
By fear or cloudy falsehood ? 

Drury. I will say 

No more or surelier than I know : and this 
I know not thoroughly to the core of truth 
Or heart of falsehood in it. A man may lie 



Scene II.] ^Ht^ g^tUatC 1 6 7 

Merely, or trim some bald lean truth with lies, 
Or patch bare falsehood with some tatter of truth. 
And each of these pass current : but of these 
Which likeliest may this man's tale be who gave 95 
Word of his own temptation by these French 
To hire them such a murderer, and avowed 
He held it godly cunning to comply 
And- bring this envoy's secretary to sight 
Of one clapped up for debts in Newgate, who 100 
Being thence released might readily, as he said. 
Even by such means as once this lady's lord 
Was made away with, make the queen away 
With powder fired beneath her bed — why, this, 
Good sooth, I guess not; but I doubt the man 105 
To be more liar than fool, and yet, God wot, 
More fool than traitor ; most of all intent 
To conjure coin forth of the Frenchman's purse 
With tricks of mere effrontery : thus at least 
We know did Walsingham esteem of him : no 
And if by Davison held of more account. 
Or merely found more serviceable, and made 
A mean to tether up those quick French tongues 
From threat or pleading for this prisoner's life, 
I cannot tell, and care not. Though the queen 115 
Hath stayed this envoy's secretary from flight 
Forth of the kingdom, and committed him 
To ward within the Tower while Chateauneuf 
Himself should come before a council held 



1 68 £par^ Stuart [activ. 

At my lord treasurer's, where being thus accused : 
At first he cared not to confront the man,' 
But stood upon his office, and the charge 
Of his king's honour and prerogative — 
Then bade bring forth the knave, who being 

brought forth 
Outfaced him with insistence front to front 
And took the record of this whole tale's truth 
Upon his soul's damnation, challenging 
The Frenchman's answer in denial hereof. 
That of his own mouth had this witness been 
Traitorously tempted, and by personal plea 
Directly drawn to treason : which awhile 
Struck dumb the ambassador as amazed with 

wrath. 
Till presently, the accuser being removed. 
He made avowal this fellow some while since 
Had given his secretary to wit there lay '■ 

One bound in Newgate who being thence released 
Would take the queen's death on his hand : 

whereto 
Answering, he bade the knave avoid his house 
On pain, if once their ways should cross, to be 
Sent bound before the council : who replied j 
He had done foul wrong to take no further note. 
But being made privy to this damned device 
Keep close its perilous knowledge ; whence the 

queen 



Scene II.] ^WC^ ^tUWCt 1 69 

Might well complain against him ; and hereon 

They fell to wrangling on this cause, that he 145 

Professed himself to no man answerable 

For declaration or for secret held 

Save his own master: so that now is gone 

Sir William Wade to Paris, not with charge 

To let the king there know this queen shall live, 150 

But to require the ambassador's recall 

And swift delivery of our traitors there 

To present justice : yet may no man say, 

For all these half-faced scares and policies. 

Here was more sooth than seeming. 

Paul, Why, these crafts 155 

Were shameful then as fear's most shameful self, 
If thus your wit read them aright ; and we 
Should for our souls and lives alike do ill 
To jeopard them on such men's surety given 
As make no more account of simple faith 160 

Than true men make of liars : and these are they. 
Our friends and masters, that rebuke us both 
By speech late uttered of her majesty 
For lack of zeal in service and of care 
She looked for at our hands, in that we have not 165 
In all this time, unprompted, of ourselves 
Found out some way to cut this queen's life off. 
Seeing how great peril, while her enemy lives. 
She is hourly subject unto : saying, she notes. 
Besides a kind of lack of love to her, i7<* 



170 ^ar^ Stuart [activ. 

Herein we have not that particular care 
Forsooth of our own safeties, or indeed 
Of the faith rather and the general good, 
That politic reason bids ; especially, 
Having so strong a warrant and such ground 
For satisfaction of our consciences 
To Godward, and discharge of credit kept 
And reputation toward the world, as is 
That oath whereby we stand associated 
To prosecute inexorably to death 
Both with our joint and our particular force 
All by whose hand and all on whose behalf 
Our sovereign's life is struck at : as by proof 
Stands charged upon our prisoner. So they write. 
As though the queen's own will had warranted 
The words that by her will's authority 
Were blotted from the bond, whereby that head 
Was doomed on whose behoof her life should be 
By treason threatened : for she would not have 
Aught pass which grieved her subjects' con- 
sciences. 
She said, or might abide not openly 
The whole world's view : nor would she any one 
Were punished for another's fault : and so 
Cut off the plea whereon she now desires 
That we should dip our secret hands in blood 
With no direction given of her own mouth 
So to pursue that dangerous head to death 



Scene H] ^Ut^ ^tUBtt 1 7 1 

By whose assent her life were sought : for this 

Stands fixed for only warrant of such deed. 

And this we have not, but her word instead 200 

She takes it most unkindly toward herself 

That men professing toward her loyally 

That love that we do should in any sort. 

For lack of our own duty's full discharge. 

Cast upon her the burden, knowing as we 205 

Her slowness to shed blood, much more of one 

So near herself in blood as is this queen. 

And one with her in sex and quality. 

And these respects, they find, or so profess. 

Do greatly trouble her : who hath sundry times 210 

Protested, they assure us, earnestly. 

That if regard of her good subjects' risk 

Did not more move her than the personal fear 

Of proper peril to her, she never would 

Be drawn to assent unto this bloodshedding : 215 

And so to our good judgments they refer 

These speeches they thought meet to acquaint us 

with 
As passed but lately from her majesty. 
And to God's guard commend us : which God 

knows 
We should much more need than deserve of him 220 
Should we give ear to this, and as they bid 
Make heretics of these papers; which three times 
You see how Davison hath enforced on us : 



1 72 ^ar^ Stuart [act iv. 

But they shall taste no fire for me, nor pass 
Back to his hands till copies writ of them : 

Lie safe in mine for sons of mine to keep 
In witness how their father dealt herein. 

Drury. You have done the wiselier : and what 
word soe'er 
Shall bid them know your mind, I am well as- 
sured 
It well may speak for me too. 

Paul, Thus it shall : 

That having here his letters in my hands, 
I would not fail, according to his charge. 
To send back answer with all possible speed 
Which shall deliver unto him my great grief 
And bitterness of mind, in that I am -. 

So much unhappy as I hold myself 
To have lived to look on this unhappy day, 
When I by plain direction am required 
From my most gracious sovereign's mouth to do 
An act which God forbiddeth, and the law. : 
Hers are my goods and livings, and my life, 
Held at her disposition, and myself 
Am ready so to lose them this next day 
If it shall please her so, acknowledging 
I hold them of her mere goodwill, and do not '. 
Desire them to enjoy them but so long 
As her great grace gives leave : but God forbid 
That I should make for any grace of hers 



Scene H] ^Ut^ ^tVLUtt I J 3 

So foul a shipwreck of my conscience, or 

Leave ever to my poor posterity 250 

So great a blot, as privily to shed blood 

With neither law nor warrant. So, in trust 

That she, of her accustomed clemency. 

Will take my dutiful answer in good part, 

By his good mediation, as returned 255 

From one who never will be less in love, 

Honour, obedience, duty to his queen, 

Than any Christian subject living, thus 

To God's grace I commit him. 

Drury, Though I doubt 

She haply shall be much more wroth hereat 260 
Than lately she was gracious, when she bade 
God treblefold reward you for your charge 
So well discharged, saluting you by name 
Most faithful and most careful, you shall do 
Most like a wise man loyally to write 265 

But such good words as these, whereto myself 
Subscribe in heart : though being not named 

herein 
(Albeit to both seem these late letters meant) 
Nor this directed to me, I forbear 
To make particular answer. And indeed, 270 

Were danger less apparent in her life 
To the heart's life of all this living land, 
I would this woman might not die at all 
By secret stroke nor open sentence. 



1 74 ^ari? Stuart [act iv. 

Paul. I 

Will praise God's mercy most for this of all, 2 
When I shall see the murderous cause removed 
Of its most mortal peril : nor desire 
A guerdon ampler from the queen we serve, 
Besides her commendations of my faith 
For spotless actions and for safe regards, 2 

Than to see judgment on her enemy done ; 
Which were for me that recompense indeed 
Whereof she writes as one not given to all, 
But for such merit reserved to crown its claim 
Above all common service : nor save this 2 

Could any treasure's promise in the world 
So ease those travails and rejoice this heart 
That hers too much takes thought of, as to read 
Her charge to carry for her sake in it 
This most just thought, that she can balance not 2 
The value that her grace doth prize me at 
In any weight of judgment : yet it were 
A word to me more comfortable at heart 
Than these, though these most gracious, that 

should speak 
Death to her death's contriver. 

Drury, Nay, myself 2 

Were fain to see this coil wound up, and her 
Removed that makes it : yet such things will 

pluck 
Hard at men's hearts that think on them, and move 



Scene H] ^Ut^ ^tUntt 1 75 

Compassion that such long strange years should 

find 
So strange an end : nor shall men ever say 3°° 
But she was born right royal ; full of sins, 
It may be, and by circumstance or choice 
Dyed and defaced with bloody stains and black. 
Unmerciful, unfaithful, but of heart 
So fiery high, so swift of spirit and clear, 305 

In extreme danger and pain so lifted up, 
So of all violent things inviolable. 
So large of courage, so superb of soul. 
So sheathed with iron mind invincible 
And arms unbreached of fireproof constancy — 310 
By shame not shaken, fear or force or death. 
Change, or all confluence of calamities — 
And so at her worst need beloved, and still. 
Naked of help and honour when she seemed, 
As other women would be, and of hope 3^5 

Stripped, still so of herself adorable 
By minds not always all ignobly mad 
Nor all made poisonous with false grain of faith, 
She shall be a world's wonder to all time, 
A deadly glory watched of marvelling men 3^° 

Not without praise, not without noble tears. 
And if without what she would never have 
Who had it never, pity — yet from none 
Quite without reverence and some kind of love 
For that which was so royal. Yea, and now 3*5 



176 £par^ Stuart [activ. 

That at her prayer we here attend on her, 
If, as I think, she have in mind to send 
Aught written to the queen, what we may do 
To further her desire shall on my part 
Gladly be done, so be it the grace she craves 
Be nought akin to danger. 

PauL It shall be 

The first of all then craved by her of man. 
Or by man's service done her, that was found 
So harmless ever. 

Enter Mary Stuart and Mary Beaton^ 

Mary Stuart, Sirs, in time past by 
I was desirous many times, ye know. 
To have written to your queen : but since I have 

had 
Advertisement of my conviction, seeing 
I may not look for life, my soul is set 
On preparation for another world : 
Yet none the less, hot for desire of life. 
But for my conscience's discharge and rest, 
And for my last farewell, I have at heart 
By you to send her a memorial writ 
Of somewhat that concerns myself, when I 
Shall presently be gone out of this world. 
And to remove from her, if such be there, 
Suspicion of all danger in receipt 
Of this poor paper that should come from me, 
Myself will take the assay of it, and so 
With mine own hands to yours deliver it. 



Scene IL] ^^t^ ^tUatt I J J 

Paul, Will you not also, madam, be content 
To seal and close it in my presence up ? 

Mary Stuart. Sir, willingly : but I beseech 
your word 
Pledged for its safe delivery to the queen. 

Paul, I plight my faith it shall be sent to her. 355 

Mary Stuart, This further promise I desire, 
you will 
Procure me from above certificate 
It hath been there delivered. 

Drury, This is more 

Than we may stand so pledged for: in our power 
It is to send, but far beyond our power, 360 

As being above our place, to promise you 
Certificate or warrant. 

Mary Stuart, Yet I trust 

Consideration may be had of me 
After my death, as one derived in blood 
From your queen's grandsire, with all mortal rites 365 
According with that faith I have professed 
All my life-days as I was born therein. 
This is the sum of all mine askings : whence 
Well might I take it in ill part of you 
To wish me seal my letter in your sight, 370 

Bewraying your hard opinion of me. 

Paul, This 

Your own words well might put into my mind, 
That so beside my expectation made 



178 ^ar^ S^tuart [act iv. 

Proffer to take my first assay for me 

Of the outer part of it : for you must think 

I was not ignorant that by sleight of craft 

There might be as great danger so conveyed 

Within the letter as without, and thus 

I could not for ill thoughts of you be blamed, 

Concurring with you in this jealousy : 

For had yourself not moved it of yourself 

Sir Drew nor I had ever thought on it. 

Mary Stuart, The occasion why I moved it 
was but this. 
That having made my custom in time past 
To send sometimes some tokens to your queen, 
At one such time that I sent certain clothes 
One standing by advised her cause my gifts 
To be tried thoroughly ere she touched them ; 

which 
I have since observed, and taken order thus 
With Nau, when last he tarried at the court. 
To do the like to a fur-fringed counterpane 
Which at that time I sent : and as for this. 
Look what great danger lies between these leaves 
That I dare take and handle in my hands. 
And press against my face each part of them 
Held open thus, and either deadly side. 
Wherein your fear smells death sown privily. 

Paul. Madam, when so you charged your 
secretary 



Scene n.l ^Ut^ ^tUm 179 

Her majesty was far from doubt, I think, 
Or dream of such foul dealing : and I would 400 
Suspicion since had found no just cause given. 
And then things had not been as now they are. 

Mary Stuart, But things are as they are, and 
here I stand 
Convicted, and not knowing how many hours 
I have to live yet. 

BauL Madam, you shall live 405 

As many hours as God shall please : but this 
May be said truly, that you here have been 
Convicted in most honourable sort 
And favourable. 

Mary Stuart, What favour have I found ? 

Paul. Your cause hath been examined scrupu- 
lously 410 
By many our eldest nobles of this realm. 
Whereas by law you should but have been tried 
By twelve men as a common person. 

Mary Stuart, Nay, 

Your noblemen must by their peers be tried. 

Paul. All strangers of what quality soe'er 4^5 
In matter of crime are only to be tried 
In other princes' territories by law 
That in that realm bears rule. 

Mary Stuart, You have your laws : 

But other princes all will think of it 
As they see cause ; and mine own son is now 420 



i8o ^ar^§)tttarc iactiv. 

No more a child, but come to man's estate. 
And he will think of these things bitterly. 

Drury. Ingratitude, whate'er he think of them. 
Is odious to all persons, but of all 
In mightiest personages most specially i 

Most hateful ; and it will not be denied 
But that the queen's grace greatly hath deserved 
Both of yourself and of your son. 

Mary Stuart, What boon 

Shall I acknowledge ? Being in bonds, I am set 
Free from the world, and therefore am I not t 
Afraid to speak ; I have had the favour here 
To have been kept prisoner now these many 

years 
Against my will and justice. 

PauL Madam, this 

Was a great favour, and without this grace 
You had not lived to see these days. 

Mary Stuart, How so ? ^ 

PauL Seeing your own subjects did pursue 
you, and had 
The best in your own country. 

Mary Stuart, That is true. 

Because your Mildmay's ill persuasions first 
Made me discharge my forces, and then caused 
Mine enemies to burn my friends' main holds, ^ 
Castles and houses. 

Paul, Howsoe'er, it was 



Scene n.] ^UX^ ^tUWCt l8l 

By great men of that country that the queen 
Had earnest suit made to her to have yourself 
Delivered to them, which her grace denied, 
And to their great misliking. 

Drury, Seventeen years 445 

She hath kept your life to save it : and whereas 
She calls your highness sister, she hath dealt 
In truth and deed most graciously with you 
And sisterlike, in seeking to preserve 
Your life at once and honour. 

Mary Stuart. Ay ! wherein ? 45° 

Drury. In that commission of your causes 
held 
At York, which was at instance of your friends 
Dissolved to save your honour. 

Mary Stuart, No : the cause 

Why that commission was dissolved indeed 
Was that my friends could not be heard to in- 
form 455 
Against my loud accusers. 

PauL But your friend 

The bishop's self of Ross, your very friend, 
Hath written that this meeting was dismissed 
All only in your favour : and his book 
Is extant : and this favour is but one 460 

Of many graces which her majesty 
Hath for mere love extended to you. 

Mary Stuart, This 



1 82 ^ar^ Stuart [activ. 

Is one great favour, even to have kept me here 
So many years against my will. 

Paul, It was 

For your own safety, seeing your countrymen - 
Sought your destruction, and to that swift end 
Required to have you yielded up to them. 
As was before said. 

Mary Stuart, Nay, then, I will speak. 
I am not afraid. It was determined here 
That I should not depart : and when I was - 
Demanded by my subjects, this I know, 
That my lord treasurer with his own close hand 
Writ in a packet which by trustier hands 
Was intercepted, and to me conveyed. 
To the earl of Murray, that the devil was tied - 
Fast in a chain, and they could keep her not, 
But here she should be safely kept. 

Drury. That earl 

Was even as honourable a gentleman 
As I knew ever in that country bred. 

Mary Stuart, One of the worst men of the 
world he was : 
A foul adulterer, one of general lust, 
A spoiler and a murderer. 

Drury. Six weeks long. 

As I remember, here I saw him ; where 
He bore him very gravely, and maintained 
The reputation even on all men's tongues 



Scene H.] g^W^ ^tmtt 1 83 

In all things of a noble gentleman : 
Nor have I heard him evil spoken of 
Till this time ever. 

Mary Stuart, Yea, my rebels here 

Are honest men, and by the queen have been 
Maintained. 

Paul. You greatly do forget yourself 490 

To charge her highness with so foul a fault, 
Which you can never find ability 
To prove on her. 

Mary Stuart. What did she with the French, 
I pray you, at Newhaven ? 

Paul. It appears 

You have conceived so hardly of the queen 495 
My mistress, that you still inveterately 
Interpret all her actions to the worst. 
Not knowing the truth of all the cause : but yet 
I dare assure you that her majesty 
Had most just cause and righteous, in respect 5°° 
As well of Calais as for other ends. 
To do the thing she did, and more to have done 
Had it so pleased her to put forth her power : 
And this is in you great unthankfulness 
After so many favours and so great, 5^5 

Whereof you will acknowledge in no wise 
The least of any : though her majesty 
Hath of her own grace merely saved your life. 
To the utter discontentment of the best 



1 84 ^ar^ §>tuart [act iv. 

Your subjects once in open parliament 5 

Who craved against you justice on the charge 
Of civil law-breach and rebellion. 

Mary Stuart. I 

Know no such matter, but full well I know 
Sir Francis Walsingham hath openly, 
Since his abiding last in Scotland, said 5 

That I should rue his entertainment there. 

Paul, Madam, you have not rued it, but have 
been 
More honourably entertained than ever yet 
Was any other crown's competitor 
In any realm save only this : whereof 5 

Some have been kept close prisoners, other some 
Maimed and unnaturally disfigured, some 
Murdered. 

Mary Stuart, But I was no competitor : 

All I required was in successive right 
To be reputed but as next the crown. 5 

Paul. Nay, madam, you went further, when 
you gave 
The English arms and style, as though our queen 
Had been but an usurper on your right. 

Mary Stuart. My husband and my kinsmen 
did therein 
What they thought good : I had nought to do 
with it. 5 

Paul. Why would you not then loyally renounce 



Scene H.] ^at^ ^tUart 1 85 

Your claim herein pretended, but with such 
Condition, that you might be authorized 
Next heir apparent to the crown ? 

Mary Stuart. I have made 

At sundry times thereon good proffers, which 535 
Could never be accepted. 

Paul. Heretofore 

It hath been proved unto you presently 
That in the very instant even of all 
Your treaties and most friendlike offers were 
Some dangerous crafts discovered. 

Mary Stuart. You must think 540 

I have some friends on earth, and if they have 

done 
Anything privily, what is that to me ? 

Paul. Madam, it was somewhat to you, and 
I would 
For your own sake you had forborne it, that 
After advertisement and conscience given 545 

Of Morgan's devilish practice, to have killed 
A sacred queen, you yet would entertain 
The murderer as your servant. 

Mary Stuart. I might do it 

With as good right as ever did your queen 
So entertain my rebels. 

Drury. Be advised : 550 

This speech is very hard, and all the case 
Here differs greatly. 



1 86 ^WC^&tmXt [Act IV. 

Mary Stuart. Yea, let this then be ; 

Ye cannot yet of my conviction say 
But I by partial judgment was condemned, 
And the commissioners knew my son could have 555 
No right, were I convicted, and your queen 
Could have no children of her womb ; whereby 
They might set up what man for king they would. 

PauL This is in you too great forgetfulness 
Of honour and yourself, to charge these lords 560 
With two so foul and horrible faults, as first 
To take your life by partial doom from you. 
And then bestow the kingdom where they liked. 

Mary Stuart, Well, all is one to me : and for 
my part 
I thank God I shall die without regret 565 

Of anything that I have done alive. 

PauL I would entreat you yet be sorry at least 
For the great wrong, and well deserving grief. 
You have done the queen my mistress. 

Mary Stuart, Nay, thereon 

Let others answer for themselves : I have 570 

Nothing to do with it. Have you borne in mind 
Those matters of my monies that we last 
Conferred upon together ? 

Paul, Madam, these 

Are not forgotten. 

Mary Stuart, Well it is if aught 
Be yet at all remembered for my good. 575 



Scene U] g^^C^ g^tUatt 1 8 7 

Have here my letter sealed and superscribed, 
And so farewell — or even as here men may. 

Exeunt Paulet and Drury. 
Had I that old strength in my weary limbs 
That in my heart yet fails not, fain would I 
Fare forth if not fare better. Tired I am, 580 

But not so lame in spirit I might not take 
Some comfort of the winter-wasted sun 
Thi^ bitter Christmas to me, though my feet 
Were now no firmer nor more hopeful found 
Than when I went but in my chair abroad 585 
Last weary June at Chartley. I can stand 
And go now without help of either side. 
And bend my hand again, thou seest, to write : 
I did not well perchance in sight of these 
To have made so much of this lame hand, which 

yet 590 

God knows was grievous to me, and to-day 
To make my letter up and superscribe 
And seal it with no outward show of pain 
Before their face and inquisition ; yet 
I care not much in player's wise piteously 595 

To blind such eyes with feigning ; though this 

Drew 
Be gentler and more gracious than his mate 
And liker to be wrought on ; but at last 
What need have I of men ? 

Mary Beaton. What then you may 



1 88 ^ar^g)tuart [activ. 

I know not, seeing for all that was and is 6 

We are yet not at the last ; but when you had, 
You have hardly failed to find more help of them 
And heartier service than more prosperous queens 
Exact of expectation : when your need 
Was greater than your name or natural state, 6 
And wage was none to look for but of death, 
As though the expectancy thereof and hope 
Were more than man's prosperities, men have 

given 
Heart's thanks to have this gift of God and you 
For dear life's guerdon, even the trust assured 6 
To drink for you the bitterness of death. 

Mary Stuart. Ay, one said once it must be — 
some one said 
I must be perilous ever, and my love 
More deadly than my will was evil or good 
Toward any of all these that through me should 
die i 

I know not who, nor when one said it : but 
I know too sure he lied not. 

Mary Beaton. No; I think 

This was a seer indeed. I have heard of men 
That under imminence of death grew strong 
With mortal foresight, yet in life-days past 6 

Could see no foot before them, nor provide 
For their own fate or fortune anything 
Against one angry chance of accident 



Scene II.] ^ar^ ^tUatt 1 89 

Or passionate fault of their own loves or hates 
That might to death betray them : such an one 625 
Thus haply might have prophesied, and had 
No strength to save himself. 

Mary Stuart, I know not : yet 

Time was when I remembered. 

Mary Beaton, It should be 

No enemy's saying whom you remember not ; 
You are wont not to forget your enemies ; yet 630 
The word rang sadder than a friend's should fall 
Save in some strange pass of the spirit of flesh 
For love's sake haply hurt to death. 

Mary Stuart. It seems 

Thy mind is bent to know the name of me 
That of myself I know not. 

Mary Beaton. Nay, my mind 635 

Has other thoughts to beat upon : for me 
It may suffice to know the saying for true 
And never care who said it. 

Mary Stuart. True ? too sure, 

God to mine heart's grief hath approved it. See, 
Nor Scot nor Englishman that takes on him 640 
The service of my sorrow but partakes 
The sorrow of my service : man by man. 
As that one said, they perish of me : yea. 
Were I a sword sent upon earth, or plague 
Bred of aerial poison, I could be 645 

No deadlier where unwillingly I strike, 



190 ^ar^ §>tttart [activ. 

Who where I would can hurt not : Percy died 
By his own hand in prison, Howard by law. 
These young men with strange torments done to 

death, 
Who should have rid me and the world of her i 
That is our scourge, and to the church of God 
A pestilence that wastes it : all the north 
Wears yet the scars engraven of civil steel 
Since its last rising : nay, she saith but right, 
Mine enemy, saying by these her servile tongues i 
I have brought upon her land mine own land's 

curse. 
And a sword follows at my heel, and fire 
Is kindled of mine eyeshot : and before. 
Whom did I love that died not of it ? whom 
That I would save might I deliver, when ( 

I had once but looked on him with love, or pledged 
Friendship ? I should have died I think long since. 
That many might have died not, and this word 
Had not been written of me nor fulfilled, ^ 
But perished in the saying, a prophecy ( 

That took the prophet by the throat and slew — 
As sure I think it slew him. Such a song 
Might my poor servant slain before my face 
Have sung before the stroke of violent death 
Had fallen upon him there for my sake. 

Mary Beaton. Ah ! < 

You think so ? this remembrance was it not 



Scene U] ^Ht^ ^tUatt 1 9 1 

That hung and hovered in your mind but now, 
Moved your heart backward all unwittingly 
To some blind memory of the man long dead ? 

Mary Stuart. In sooth, I think my prophet 
should have been 675 

David. 

Mary Beaton, You thought of him ? 

Mary Stuart, An old sad thought : 

The moan of it was made long since, and he 
Not unremembered. 

Mary Beaton. Nay, of him indeed 

Record was made — a royal record : whence 
No marvel is it that you forgot not him. 680 

Mary Stuart. I would forget no friends nor 
enemies : these 
More needs me now remember. Think'stthou not 
This woman hates me deadlier — or this queen 
That is not woman — than myself could hate 
Except I were as she in all things ? then 685 

I should love no such woman as am I 
Much more than she may love me : yet I am sure, 
Or so near surety as all belief may be, 
She dare not slay me for her soul's sake : nay. 
Though that were made as light of as a leaf 690 
Storm-shaken, in such stormy winds of state 
As blow between us like a blast of death. 
For her throne's sake she durst not, which must be 
Broken to build my scaffold. Yet, God wot, 



192 3par^ Stuart [activ. 

Perchance a straw's weight now cast in by chance 695 
Might weigh my life down in the scale her hand 
Holds hardly straight for trembling : if she be 
Woman at all, so tempered naturally 
And with such spirit and sense as thou and I, 
Should I for wrath so far forget myself 700 

As these men sometime charge me that I do, 
My tongue might strike my head off. By this head 
That yet I wear to swear by, if life be 
Thankworthy, God might well be thanked for 

this 
Of me or whoso loves me in the world, 705 

That I spake never half my heart out yet, 
For any sore temptation of them all, 
To her or hers ; nor ever put but once 
My heart upon my paper, writing plain 
The things I thought, heard,knewfortruth of her, 710 
Believed or feigned — nay, feigned not to believe 
Of her fierce follies fed with wry-mouthed praise. 
And that vain ravin of her sexless lust 
Which could not feed nor hide its hunger, curb 
With patience nor allay with love the thirst 715 
That mocked itself as all mouths mocked it. Ha, 
What might the reading of these truths have 

wrought 
Within her maiden mind, what seed have sown, 
Trow' St thou, in her sweet spirit, of revenge 
Toward me that showed her queenship in the glass 720 



Scene II.] ^Ut^ ^tmtt 193 

A subject's hand of hers had put in mine 
The likeness of it loathed and laughable 
As they that worshipped it with words and signs 
Beheld her and bemocked her ? 

Mary Beaton, Certainly, 

I think that soul drew never breath alive 725 

To whom this letter might seem pardonable 
Which timely you forbore to send her. 

Mary Stuart. Nay, 

I doubt not I did well to keep it back — 
And did not ill to write it : for God knows 
It was no small ease to my heart. 

Mary Beaton. But say 730 

I had not burnt it as you bade me burn, 
But kept it privily safe against a need 
That I might haply sometime have of it ? 

Mary Stuart. What, to destroy me ? 

Mary Beaton. Hardly, sure, to save. 

Mary Stuart. Why shouldst thou think to 
bring me to my death ? 735 

Mary Beaton. Indeed, no man am I that love 
you; nor 
Need I go therefore in such fear of you 
As of my mortal danger. 

Mary Stuart. On my life 

(Long life or short, with gentle or violent end, 
I know not, and would choose not, though I might 740 
So take God's office on me), one that heard 



194 ^nX^^tXXnXt [Act IV. 

Would swear thy speech had in it, and subtly 

mixed, 
A savour as of menace, or a sound 
As of an imminent ill or perilous sense 
Which was not in thy meaning. 

Mary Beaton. No : in mine : 

There lurked no treason ever ; nor have you 
Cause to think worse of me than loyally, 
If proof may be believed on witness. 

Mary Stuart. Sure, 

I think I have not nor I should not have : 
Thy life has been the shadow cast of mine, 
A present faith to serve my present need, 
A foot behind my footsteps ; as long since 
In those French dances that we trod, and laughed 
The blithe way through together. Thou couldst 

sing 
Then, and a great while gone it is by this 
Since I heard song or music : I could now 
Find in my heart to bid thee, as the Jews 
Were once bid sing in their captivity 
One of their songs of Sion, sing me now. 
If one thou knowest, for love of that far time. 
One of our songs of Paris. 

Mary Beaton. Give me leave 

A little to cast up some wandering words 
And gather back such memories as may beat 
About my mind of such a song, and yet 



Scene n.] ^^at^ ^tUatt 195 

I think I might renew some note long dumb 765 
That once your ear allowed of. — i^Jside.) I did 

pray, 
Tempt me not, God : and by her mouth again 
He tempts me — nay, but prompts me, being 

most just. 
To know by trial if all remembrance be 
Dead as remorse or pity that in birth 77° 

Die^, and were childless in her : if she quite 
Forget that very swan-song of thy love, 
My love that wast, my love that wouldst not be, 
Let God forget her now at last as I 
Remember : if she think but one soft thought, 775 
Cast one poor word upon thee, God thereby 
Shall surely bid me let her live : if none, 
I shoot that letter home and sting her dead. 
God strengthen me to sing but these words 
through 
5 Though I fall dumb at end for ever. Now — 780 

She sings, 
Apres tant de jours, apres tant de pleurs, 
Soyez secourable a mon ame en peine. 
Voyez comme Avril fait T amour aux fleurs j 
Dame d' amour, dame aux belles couleurs, 
Dieu vous a fait belle. Amour vous fait reine. 785 

Rions, je t'en prie ; aimons, je le veux. 

Le temps fuit et rit et ne revient guere 

Pour baiser le bout de tes blonds cheveux. 

Pour baiser tes cils, ta bouche et tes yeux j 

L' amour n'a qu'un jour aupres de sa mere. 79® 



1 96 ^ar^ Stuart [act iv. 

Mary Stuart, Nay, I should once have known 
that song, thou say'st. 
And him that sang it and should now be dead : 
Was it — but his rang sweeter — was it not 
Remy Bclleau ? 

Mary Beaton, (My letter- — here at heart !) 

Aside, 
I think it might be — were it better writ 795 

And courtlier phrased, with Latin spice cast in, 
And a more tunable descant. 

Mary Stuart, Ay ; how sweet 

Sang all the world about those stars that sang 
With Ronsard for the strong mid star of all. 
His bay-bound head all glorious with grey hairs, 800 
Who sang my birth and bridal ! When I think 
Of those French years, I only seem to see 
A light of swords and singing, only hear 
Laughter of love and lovely stress of lutes, "^ 

And in between the passion of them borne 8c) 

Sound of swords crossing ever, as of feet 
Dancing, and life and death still equally 
Blithe and bright-eyed from battle. Haply now 
My sometime sister, mad Queen Madge, is grown 
As grave as I should be, and wears at waist 810 
No hearts of last year's lovers any more 
Enchased for jewels round her girdlestead. 
But rather beads for penitence ; yet I doubt 
Time should not more abash her heart than mine, 



Scene III.] ^^t^ ^tmtt 1 97 

Who live not heartless yet. These days like 

those 815 

Have power but for a season given to do 
No more upon our spirits than they may, 
And what they may we know not till it be 
Done, and we need no more take thought of it, 
As I no more of death or life to-day. 820 

Mary Beaton, That shall you surely need not. . 

Mary Stuart. So I think, 

Our keepers being departed : and by these, 
Even by the uncourtlier as the gentler man, 
I read as in a glass their queen's plain heart, 
And that by her at last I shall not die. 825 

Scene III. — Greenwich Palace, 
Queen Elizabeth and Davison. 

Elizabeth. Thou hast seen Lord Howard ? I 
bade him send thee. 

Davison. Madam, 

But now he came upon me hard at hand 
And by your gracious message bade me in. 

Eliz. The day is fair as April : hast thou been 
Abroad this morning ? 'T is no winter's sun 5 

That makes these trees forget their nakedness 
And all the glittering ground, as 't were in hope. 
Breathe laughingly. 

Dav. Indeed, the gracious air 



198 ^ar^ Stuart [activ. 

Had drawn me forth into the park, and thence 
Comes my best speed to attend upon your grace. 10 

Eliz. My grace is not so gracious as the sun 
That graces thus the late distempered air : 
And you should oftener use to walk abroad, 
Sir, than your custom is : I would not have 
Good servants heedless of their natural health 15 
To do me sickly service. It were strange 
That one twice bound as woman and as queen 
To care for good men's lives and loyalties 
Should prove herself toward either dangerous. 

Dav, That 

Can be no part of any servant's fear 20 

Who lives for service of your majesty. 

Eliz, I would not have it be — God else for- 
bid— 
Who have so loyal servants as I hold 
All now that bide about me : for I will not 
Think, though such villainy once were in men's 

minds, 25 

That twice among mine English gentlemen 
Shall hearts be found so foul as theirs who thought. 
When I was horsed for hunting, to waylay 
And shoot me through the back at unawares 
With poisoned bullets : nor, thou knowest, 

would I, 30 

When this was opened to me, take such care. 
Ride so fenced round about with iron guard. 



Scene m.l ^Ut^ ^tXXm 199 

Or walk so warily as men counselled me 

For loyal fear of what thereafter might 

More prosperously be plotted : nay, God knows, 35 

I would not hold on such poor terms my life. 

With such a charge upon it, as to breathe 

In dread of death or treason till the day 

That they should stop my trembling breath, and 

ease 
The^piteous heart that panted like a slave's 40 

Of all vile fear for ever. So to live 
Were so much hatefuller than thus to die, 
I do not think that man or woman draws 
Base breath of life the loathsomest on earth 
Who by such purchase of perpetual fear 45 

And deathless doubt of all in trust of none 
Would shudderingly prolong it. 

Dav. Even too well 

Your servants know that greatness of your heart 
Which gives you yet unguarded to men's eyes, 
And were unworthier found to serve or live 5° 
Than is the unworthiest of them, did not this 
Make all their own hearts hotter with desire 
To be the bulwark or the price of yours 
Paid to redeem it from the arrest of death. 

Eiiz. So haply should they be whose hearts 
beat true 55 

With loyal blood : but whoso says they are 
Is but a loving liar. 



200 ^ar^ Stuart [act iv. 

Dav. I trust your grace 

Hath in your own heart no such doubt of them 
As speaks in mockery through your lips. 

Eli%, By God, 

I say much less than righteous truth might 

speak 
Of their loud loves that ring with emptiness, 
And hollow-throated loyalties whose heart 
Is wind and clamorous promise. Ye desire. 
With all your souls ye swear that ye desire 
The queen of Scots were happily removed, 
And not a knave that loves me will put hand 
To the enterprise ye look for only of me 
Who only would forbear it. 

Dav. If your grace 

Be minded yet it shall be done at all. 
The way that were most honourable and just 
Were safest, sure, and best. 

Eliz, I dreamt last night 

Our murderess there in hold had tasted death 
By execution of the sentence done 
That was pronounced upon her; and the news 
So stung my heart with wrath to hear of it 
That had I had a sword — look to 't, and 'ware ! — 
I had thrust it through thy body. 

Dav, God defend ! 

'T was well I came not in your highness' way 
While the hot mood was on you. But indeed 



Scene III.] ^Ht^ ^tUart 201 

I would know soothly if your mind be changed 80 
From its late root of purpose. 

Eliz. No, by God : 

But I were fain it could be somewise done 
And leave the blame not on me. And so much, 
If there were love and honesty in one 
Whom I held faithful and exact of care, 85 

Should easily be performed ; but here I find 
This dainty fellow so precise a knave 
As will take all things dangerous on his tongue 
And nothing on his hand : hot-mouthed and large 
In zeal to stuff mine ears with promises, 90 

But perjurous in performance : did he not 
Set hand among you to the bond whereby 
He is bound at utmost hazard of his life 
To do me such a service ? Yet I could 
Have wrought as well without him, had I wist 95 
Of this faint falsehood in his heart : there is 
That Wingfield whom thou wot'st of, would 

have done 
With glad goodwill what I required of him, 
And made no Puritan mouths on 't. 

Dav. Madam, yet 

Far better were it all should but be done 100 

By line of law and judgment. 

Eliz. There be men 

Wiser than thou that see this otherwise. 

Dav. All is not wisdom that of wise men 
comes. 



202 £pan? g^tuart iact iv. 

Nor are all eyes that search the ways of state 
Clear as a just man's conscience. 

Eli%. Proverbs ! ha ? 105 

Who made thee master of these sentences. 
Prime tongue of ethics and philosophy ? 

Dav. An honest heart to serve your majesty ; 
Nought else nor subtler in its reach of wit 
Than very simpleness of meaning. 

Eliz. Nay, "© 

I do believe thee ; heartily I do. 
Did my lord admiral not desire thee bring 
The warrant for her execution ? 

Dav. Ay, 

Madam ; here is it. 

Eliz, I would it might not be, 

Or being so just were yet not necessary. "S 

Art thou not heartily sorry — wouldst thou not, 
I say, be sad — to see me sign it ? 

Dav, Madam, 

I grieve at any soul's mishap that lives. 
And specially for shipwreck of a life 
To you so near allied : but seeing this doom lao 
Wrung forth from justice by necessity, 
I had rather guilt should bleed than innocence. 

Eliz, When I shall sign, take thou this in- 
stantly 
To the lord chancellor ; see it straight be sealed 
As quietly as he may, not saying a word, "5 



Scene IH.] ^Ht^ ^tmtt 203 

That no man come to know it untimely : then 
Send it to the earls of Kent and Shrewsbury 
Who are here set down to see this justice done : 
I would no more be troubled with this coil 
Till all be through. But, for the place of doom, 130 
The hall there of the castle, in my mind, 
Were fitter than the court or open green. 
And as thou goest betake thee on thy way 
To- Walsingham, where he lies sick at home, 
And let him know what hath of us been done : 135 
Whereof the grief, I fear me, shall go near 
To kill his heart outright. 

Dav. Your majesty 

Hath yet not signed the warrant. 

Eliz. Ha ! God's blood 

Art thou from tutor of philosophy late 
Grown counsellor too and more than counsellor, 140 
To appoint me where and what this hand of 

mine 
Shall at thy beck obsequiously subscribe 
And follow on thy finger ? By God's death. 
What if it please me now not sign at all ? 
This letter of my kinswoman's last writ 145 

Hath more compulsion in it, and more power 
To enforce my pity, than a thousand tongues 
Dictating death against her in mine ear 
Of mine own vassal subjects. Here but now 
She writes me she thanks God with all her heart 150 



204 ^ar^ Stuart [act iv. 

That it hath pleased him by the mean of me 
To make an end of her life's pilgrimage, " 

Which hath been weary to her : and doth not 

ask 
To see its length drawn longer, having had 
Too much experience of its bitterness : iSS 

But only doth entreat me, since she may 
Look for no favour at their zealous hands 
Who are first in councils of my ministry, 
.That only I myself will grant her prayers ; 
Whereof the first is, since she cannot hope i6o 
For English burial with such Catholic rites 
As here were used in time of the ancient kings, 
Mine ancestors and hers, and since the tombs 
Lie violated in Scotland of her sires. 
That so soon ever as her enemies 165 

Shall with her innocent blood be satiated. 
Her body by her servants may be borne 
To some ground consecrated, there to be 
Interred : and rather, she desires, in France, 
Where sleep her honoured mother's ashes; so 170 
At length may her poor body find the rest 
Which living it has never known : thereto. 
She prays me, from the fears she hath of those 
*^. To whose harsh hand I have abandoned her. 
She may not secretly be done to death, 175 

But in her servants' sight and others', who 
May witness her obedience kept and faith 



Scene HI.] ^ari^ ^CUatC 205 

To the true church, and guard her memory safe 
From slanders haply to be blown abroad 
Concerning her by mouths of enemies : last, 180 
She asks that her attendants, who so well 
And faithfully through all her miseries past 
Have served her, may go freely where they 

please, 
And lose not those small legacies of hers 
Wlych poverty can yet bequeath to them. 185 

This she conjures me by the blood of Christ, 
Our kinship, and my grandsire's memory. 
Who was her father's grandsire and a king. 
And by the name of queen she bears with her 
Even to the death, that I will not refuse, 190 

And that a word in mine own hand may thus 
Assure her, who will then as she hath lived 
Die mine affectionate sister and prisoner. See, 
Howe'er she have sinned, what heart were mine, 

if this 
Drew no tears from me : not the meanest soul 195 
That lives most miserable but with such words 
Must needs draw down men's pity. 

Dav. Sure it is. 

This queen hath skill of writing : and her hand 
Hath manifold eloquence with various voice 
To express discourse of sirens or of snakes, 200 
A mermaid's or a monster's, uttering best 
All music or all malice. Here is come 



2o6 £par^ Stuart [act iv. 

A letter writ long since of hers to you 

From Sheffield Castle, which for shame or fear 

She durst not or she would not thence despatch, 205 

Sent secretly to me from Fotheringay, 

Not from her hand, but with her own hand writ, 

So foul of import and malignity 

I durst not for your majesty's respect 

With its fierce infamies afire from hell aio 

Off^end your gracious eyesight : but because 

Your justice by your mercy's ignorant hand 

Hath her fair eyes put out, and walks now blind 

Even by the pit's edge deathward, pardon me 

If what you never should have seen be shown 215 

By hands that rather would take fire in hand 

Than lay in yours this writing. 

Gives her a letter. 
Eliz. By this light, 

Whate'er be here, thou hadst done presumptu- 
ously. 
And Walsingham thy principal, to keep 
Aught from mine eyes that being to me designed 220 
Might even with most off^ence enlighten them. 
Here is her hand indeed ; and she takes up 

Reailmg. 

In gracious wise enough the charge imposed 
By promise on her and desire of ours. 
How loth soe'er she be, regretfully 2*5 

To bring such things in question of discourse 



Scene HI.] ^Ut^ ^tmtt ZOJ 

Yet with no passion but sincerity. 
As God shall witness her, declares to us 
What our good lady of Shrewsbury said to her 
Touching ourself in terms ensuing ; whereto ^3° 
Answering she chid this dame for such belief 
And reprehended for licentious tongue 
To speak so lewdly of us : which herself 
Believes not, knowing the woman's natural heart 
And evil will as then to usward. Here 235 

She writes no more than I would well believe 
Of her as of the countess. Ha ! 

Dav. Your grace 

Shall but defile and vex your eyes and heart 
To read these villainies through. 

Eliz, God's death, man ! peace : 

Thou wert not best incense me toward thine own, 240 
Whose eyes have been before me in them. What ! 
Was she not mad to write this ? One that had 
Tour promise — lay with you times numberless — 
All license and all privateness that may 
Be used of wife and husband I yea, of her 245 

And more dead men than shame remembers. God 
Shall stand her witness — with the devil of hell 
For sponsor to her vows, whose spirit in her 
Begot himself this issue. Ha, the duke ! 
— - Nay, God shall give me patience — and his 

knave, *5o 

And Hatton — God have mercy ! nay, but hate, 



2o8 ^ar^ Stuart [act iv. 

Hate and constraint and rage have wrecked her 

wits, 
And continence of life cut off from lust, 
— This common stale of Scotland, that has tried 
The sins of three rank nations, and consumed 255 
Their veins whose life she took not — Italy, 
France that put half this poison in her blood. 
And her own kingdom that being sick therewith 
Vomited out on ours the venomous thing 
Whose head we set not foot on — but may God 260 
Make my fame fouler through the world than hers 
And ranker in men's record, if I spare 
The she-wolf that I saved, the womanrbeast. 
Wolf-woman — how the Latin rings we know, 
And what lewd lair first reared her, and whose 

hand 265 

Writ broad across the Louvre and Holyrood 
Lupanar — but no brothel ever bred 
Or breathed so rank a soul's infection, spawned 
Or spat such foulness in God's face and man's 
Or festered in such falsehood as her breath 270 
Strikes honour sick with, and the spirit of shame 
Dead as her fang shall strike herself, and send 
The serpent that corruption calls her soul 
To vie strange venoms with the worm of hell 
And make the face of darkness and the grave 275 
Blush hotter with the fires wherein that soul 
Sinks deeper than damnation. 



Scene HL] g^WCl^ ^tXXUtt 209 

Dav. Let your grace 

Think only that but now the thing is known 
And self-discovered which too long your love 
Too dangerously hath cherished; and forget 280 
All but that end which yet remains for her, 
That right by pity be not overcome. 

Eliz. God pity so my soul as I do right, 
And show me no more grace alive or dead 
Than I do justice here. Give me again 285 

That warrant I put by, being foolish : yea. 
Thy word spake sooth — my soul's eyes were 

put out — 
I could not see for pity. Thou didst well — 
I am bounden to thee heartily — to cure 
My sight of this distemper, and my soul. 290 

Here in God's sight I set mine hand, who thought 
Never to take this thing upon it, nor 
Do God so bitter service. Take this hence : 
And let me see no word nor hear of her 
Till the sun see not such a soul alive. 295 



END OF THE FOURTH ACT 



ACT V 
MARY STUART 



ACT V. 

Scene I. — Marfs Cbamher in Fotheringay Castle. 
Mary Stuart and Mary Beaton. 

Mary Stuart (sings). 

O Lord my God, 
• I have trusted in thee j 

O Jesu my dearest one. 

Now set me free. 
In prison's oppression, 5 

In sorrow's obsession, 

I weary for thee. 
With sighing and crying 
Bowed down as dying, 
I adore thee, I implore thee, set me free ! 10 

Free are the dead : yet fain I would have had 
Once, before all captivity find end, 
Some breath of freedom living. These that come, 
I think, with no such message, must not find. 
For all this lameness of my limbs, a heart 15 

As maimed in me with sickness. Three years 

gone 
When last I parted from the earl marshal's 

charge, 
I did not think to see his face again 
Turned on me as his prisoner. Now his wife 
Will take no jealousy more to hear of it, ao 



214 ^ar^ Stuart iact v. 

I trust, albeit we meet not as unfriends, 

If it be mortal news he brings me. Go, 

If I seem ready, as nieseems I should. 

And well arrayed to bear myself indeed 

None otherwise than queenlike in their sight, 25 

Bid them come in. Exit Mary Beaton. 

I cannot tell at last 
If it be fear or hope that should expect 
Death : I have had enough of hope, and fear 
Was none of my familiars while I lived 
Such life as had more pleasant things to lose 30 
Than death or life may now divide me from. 
'T is not so much to look upon the sun 
With eyes that may not lead us where we will, 
And halt behind the footless flight of hope 
With feet that may not follow : nor were aught 35 
So much, of all things life may think to have. 
That one not cowardly born should find it worth 
The purchase of so base a price as this. 
To stand self-shamed as coward. I do not think 
This is mine end that comes upon me : but 40 
I had liefer far it were than, were it not, 
That ever I should fear it. 

Enter Kent, Shrewsbury, Beak, and Sheriff, 

Sirs, good day : 
With such good heart as prisoners have, I bid 
You and your message welcome. 

Kent, Madam, this 



Scene I.] ^UX^ ^tUatC 2 1 5 

The secretary of the council here hath charge 45 
To read as their commission. 

Mary Stuart, Let me hear 

In as brief wise as may beseem the time 
The purport of it. 

Beale, Our commission here 

Given by the council under the great seal 
Pronounces on your head for present doom 5° 

Death, by this written sentence. 

Mary Stuart. Ay, my lords ? 

May I believe this, and not hold myself 
Mocked as a child with shadows ? In God's 

name. 
Speak you, my lord of Shrewsbury : let me know 
If this be dream or waking. 

Kent, Verily, 55 

No dream it is, nor dreamers we that pray. 
Madam, you meetly would prepare yourself 
To stand before God's judgment presently. 

Mary Stuart, I had rather so than ever stand 
again 
Before the face of man's. Why speak not you, 60 
To whom I speak, my lord earl marshal ? Nay, 
Look not so heavily : by my life, he stands 
As one at point to weep. Why, good my lord. 
To know that none may swear by Mary's life 
And hope again to find belief of man 65 

Upon so slight a warrant, should not bring 



21 6 £par^g)tttart iactv. 

This trouble on your eyes ; look up, and say 
The word you have for her that never was 
Less than your friend, and prisoner. 

Shrewsbury, None save this, 

Which willingly I would not speak, I may ; 70 
That presently your time is come to die. 

Mary Stuart. Why, then, I am well content 

to leave a world 
Wherein I am no more serviceable at all 
To God or man, and have therein so long 
Endured so much affliction. All my life 75 

I have ever earnestly desired the love 
And friendship of your queen ; have warned her 

oft 
Of coming dangers ; and have cherished long 
The wish that I but once might speak with her 
In plain-souled confidence ; being well assured, 80 
Had we but once met, there an end had been 
Of jealousies between us : but our foes. 
With equal wrong toward either, treacherously 
Have kept us still in sunder : by whose craft 
And crooked policy hath my sister's crown 85 

Fallen in great peril, and myself have been 
Imprisoned, and inveterately maligned. 
And here must now be murdered. But I know 
That only for my faith's sake I must die. 
And this to know for truth is recompense 90 

As large as all my sufferings. For the crime 



Scene I.] ^Ht^ &tmtt 2 1 J 

Wherewith I am charged, upon this holy book 
I lay mine hand for witness of my plea, 
I am wholly ignorant of it ; and solemnly 
Declare that never yet conspiracy 95 

Devised against the queen my sister's life 
Took instigation or assent from me. 

Kent. You swear but on a popish Testament : 
Such oaths are all as worthless as the book. 

Alary Stuart. I swear upon the book wherein 
, I trust : loo 

Would you give rather credit to mine oath 
Sworn on your scriptures that I trust not in ? 

Kent. Madam, I fain would have you heartily 
Renounce your superstition ; toward which end 
With us the godly dean of Peterborough, 105 

Good Richard Fletcher, well approved for faith 
Of God and of the queen, is hither come 
To proffer you his prayerful ministry. 

Afary Stuart. If you, my lords, or he will 
pray for me, 
I shall be thankful for your prayers ; but may not no 
With theirs that hold another faith mix mine. 
I pray you therefore that mine almoner may 
Have leave to attend on me, that from his hands 
I, having made confession, may receive 
The sacrament. 

Kent. We may not grant you this. "S 

Mary Stuart. I shall not see my chaplain ere 
I die ? 



2 1 8 ^pat^ Stuart [act v. 

But two months gone this grace was granted me 
By word expressly from your queen, to have 
Again his ministration : and at last 
In the utter hour and bitter strait of death lao 

Is this denied me ? 

Kent, Madam, for your soul 

More meet it were to cast these mummeries out 
And bear Christ only in your heart, than serve 
With ceremonies of ritual hand and tongue 
His mere idolatrous likeness. 

Mary Stuart. This were strange 125 

That I should bear him visible in my hand 
Or keep with lips and knees his titular rites 
And cast in heart no thought upon him. Nay, 
Put me, I pray, to no more argument : 
But if this least thing be not granted, yet 130 

Grant me to know the season of my death. 

Shrews, At eight by dawn to-morrow you 
must die. 

Mary Stuart, So shall I hardly see the sun 
again. 
By dawn to-morrow ? meanest men condemned 
Give not their lives' breath up so suddenly : 135 
Howbeit, I had rather yield you thanks, who 

make 
Such brief end of the bitterness of death 
For me who have borne such bitter length of life, 
Than plead with protestation of appeal 



Scene I.] ^at^ ^tmtt 2 1 9 

For half a piteous hour's remission : nor 140 

Henceforward shall I be denied of man 

Aught, who may never now crave aught again 

But whence is no denial. Yet shall this 

Not easily be believed of men, nor find 

In foreign ears acceptance, that a queen 145 

Should be thrust out of life thus. Good my 

friend, 
Bid my physician Gorion come to me : 
I ha\te to speak with him — sirs, with your 

leave — 
Of certain monies due to me in France. 
What, shall I twice desire your leave, my lords, 150 
To live these poor last hours of mine alive 
At peace among my friends ? I have much to do, 
And little time wherein to do it is left. 

Shrews, {to Kent apart). I pray she may not 
mean worse than I would 
Against herself ere morning. 

Kent. Let not then 155 

This French knave's drugs come near her, nor 

himself: 
We will take order for it. 

Shrews. Nay, this were but 

To exasperate more her thwarted heart, and make 
Despair more desperate than itself. Pray God 
She be not minded to compel us put 160 

Force at the last upon her of men's hands 



220 ^^t^^tnm [ActV. 

To hale her violently to death, and make 
Judgment look foul and fierce as murder's face 
With stain of strife and passion. 

Exeunt all but Mary Stuart and Mary Beaton. 
Mary Stuart. So, my friend, 

The last of all our Maries are you left 165 

To-morrow. Strange has been my life, and now 
Strange looks my death upon me : yet, albeit 
Nor the hour nor manner of it be mine to choose 
Ours is it yet, and all men's in the world. 
To make death welcome in what wise we will. 170 
Bid you my chaplain, though he see me not. 
Watch through the night and pray for me : 

perchance. 
When ere the sundawn they shall bring me forth, 
I may behold him, and upon my knees 
Receive his blessing. Let our supper be 175 

Served earlier in than wont was : whereunto 
I bid my true poor servants here, to take 
Farewell and drink at parting to them all 
The cup of my last kindness, in good hope 
They shall stand alway constant in their faith 180 
And dwell in peace together : thereupon 
What little store is left me will I share 
Among them, and between my girls divide 
My wardrobe and my jewels severally. 
Reserving but the black robe and the red 185 

That shall attire me for my death : and last 



i 



Scene!.] ^Ht^ ^tUatt 221 

With mine own hand shall be my will writ out 

And all memorials more set down therein 

That I would leave for legacies of love 

To my next kinsmen and my household folk. 190 

And to the king my brother yet of PVance 

Must I write briefly, but a word to say 

I am innocent of the charge whereon I die 

Now for my right's sake claimed upon this crown, 

And^our true faith's sake, but am barred from sight 195 

Even of mine almoner here, though hard at hand ; 

And I would bid him take upon his charge 

The keeping of my servants, as I think 

He shall not for compassionate shame refuse 

Albeit his life be softer than his heart ; 200 

And in religion for a queen's soul pray 

That once was styled Most Christian, and is now 

In the true faith about to die, deprived 

Of all her past possessions. But this most 

And first behoves it, that the king of Spain 205 

By Gorion's word of mouth receive my heart, 

Who soon shall stand before him. Bid the leech 

Come hither, and alone, to speak with me. 

Exit Mary Beaton, 
She is dumb as death : yet never in her life 
Hath she been quick of tongue. For all the rest, 210 
Poor souls, how well they love me, all as well 
I think I know : and one of them or twain 
At least may surely see me to my death 



222 ^ari? Stuart [act v. 

Ere twice the hours have changed again. Per- 
chance 
Love that can weep not would the gladlier die 215 
For those it cannot weep on. Time wears thin : 
They should not now play laggard : nay, he 

comes, 
The last that ever speaks alone with me 
Before my soul shall speak alone with God. 

Enter Gorton. 
I have sent once more for you to no such end 220 
As sick men for physicians : no strong drug 
May put the death next morning twelve hours 

back 
Whose twilight overshadows me, that am 
Nor sick nor medicinable. Let me know 
If I may lay the last of all my trust 225 

On you that ever shall be laid on man 
To prove him kind and loyal. 

Gorton. So may God 

Deal with me, madam, as I prove to you 
Faithful, though none but I were in the world 
That you might trust beside. 

Mary Stuart. With equal heart 230 

Do I believe and thank you. I would send 
To Paris for the ambassador from Spain 
This letter with two diamonds, which your craft 
For me must cover from men's thievish eyes 
Where they may be not looked for. 



Scene L] ^^t^ ^tUatt 223 

Gor. Easily 235 

Within some molten drug may these be hid. 
And faithfully by me conveyed to him. 

Mary Stuart. The lesser of them shall he 
keep in sign 
Of my good friendship toward himself: but this 
In token to King Philip shall he give 240 

That for the truth I die, and dying commend 
To-him my friends and servants, Gilbert Curie, 
His sister, and Jane Kennedy, who shall 
To-night watch by me; and my ladies all 
That have endured my prison : let him not 245 
Forget from his good favour one of these 
That I remember to him : Charles Arundel, 
And either banished Paget ; one whose heart 
Was better toward my service than his hand, 
Morgan : and of mine exiles for their faith, 250 
The prelates first of Glasgow and of Ross ; 
And Liggons and Throgmorton, that have lost 
For me their leave to live on English earth ; 
And Westmoreland, that lives now more forlorn 
Than died that earl who rose for me with him. 255 
These I beseech him favour for my sake 
Still : and forget not, if he come again 
To rule as king in England, one of them 
That were mine enemies here : the treasurer first. 
And Leicester, Walsingham, and Huntingdon, 260 
At Tutbury once my foe, fifteen years gone. 



224 ^ar^ Stuart [act v. 

And Wade that spied upon me three years since. 

And Paulet here my gaoler : set them down 

For him to wreak wrath's utmost justice on, 

In my revenge remembered. Though I be 265 

Dead, let him not forsake his hope to reign 

Upon this people : with my last breath left 

I make this last prayer to him, that not the less 

He will maintain the invasion yet designed 

Of us before on England : let him think, 270 

It is God's quarrel, and on earth a cause 

Well worthy of his greatness : which being won, 

Let him forget no man of these nor me. 

And now will I lie down, that four hours' sleep 

May give me strength before I sleep again 275 

And need take never thought for waking more. 

Scene II. — T^he Presence Chamber, 

Shrewsbury y Kent, Paulet, Drury, Melville, and 
Attendants. 

Kent, The stroke is past of eight. 
Shrewsbury, Not far, my lord. 

Kent, What stays the provost and the sheriff 
yet 
That went ere this to bring the prisoner forth ? 
What, are her doors locked inwards ? then per- 
chance 
Our last night's auguries of some close design S 



Scene n.] ^Ut^ ^tmtt 225 

By death contrived of her self-slaughterous hand 
To baffle death by justice hit but right 
The heart of her bad purpose. 

Shrews. Fear it not : 

See where she comes, a queenlier thing to see 
Than whom such thoughts take hold on. 

Enter Mary Stuart, led by two gentlemen and preceded 
by the Sheriff ; Mary Beaton, Barbara Mowbray, 
and other ladies behind, who remain in the doorway. 
Melville {kneeling to Mary). Woe am I, lo 

Madam, that I must bear to Scotland back 
Such tidings watered with such tears as these. 
Mary Stuart. Weep not, good Melville: rather 
should your heart 
Rejoice that here an end is come at last 
Of Mary Stuart's long sorrows ; for be sure iS 
That all this world is only vanity. 
And this record I pray you make of me, 
That a true woman to my faith I die, 
And true to Scotland and to France : but God 
Forgive them that have long desired mine end 20 
And with false tongues have thirsted for my blood 
As the hart thirsteth for the water-brooks. 
O God, who art truth, and the author of all truth. 
Thou knowest the extreme recesses of my heart, 
And how that I was willing all my days 25 

That England should with Scotland be fast 
friends. 



226 ^ar^ Stuart [act v. 

Commend me to my son : tell him that I 
Have nothing done to prejudice his rights 
As king : and now, good Melville, fare thee well. 
My lord of Kent, whence comes it that your 

charge 
Hath bidden back my women there at door 
Who fain to the end would bear me company ? 

Kent. Madam, this were not seemly nor dis- 
creet. 
That these should so have leave to vex men's ears 
With cries and loose lamentings : haply too 
They might in superstition seek to dip 
Their handkerchiefs for relics in your blood. 

Mary Stuart. That will I pledge my word 
they shall not. Nay, 
The queen would surely not deny me this. 
The poor last thing that I shall ask on earth. 
Even a far meaner person dying I think 
She would not have so handled. Sir, you know 
I am her cousin, of her grandsire's blood, 
A queen of France by marriage, and by birth 
Anointed queen of Scotland. My poor girls 
Desire no more than but to see me die. 

Shrews. Madam, you have leave to elect of 
this your train 
Two ladies with four men to go with you. 

Mary Stuart. I choose from forth my Scot- 
tish following here 



Scene II.] ^Ht^ ^tUatC 22/ 

Jane Kennedy, with Elspeth Curie : of men, 50 
Bourgoin and Gorion shall attend on me, 
Gervais and Didier. Come then, let us go. 

Exeunt : manent Mary Beaton and Barbara 
Mowbray. 

Barbara. I wist I was not worthy, though my 
child 
It is that her own hands made Christian : but 
I deemed she should have bid you go with her. 55 
Alas, and would not all we die with her ? 

Mary Beaton. Why, from the gallery here at 
hand your eyes 
May go with her along the hall beneath 
Even to the scaffold : and I fain would hear 
What fain I would not look on. Pray you, then, 60 
If you may bear to see it as those below, 
Do me that sad good service of your eyes 
For mine to look upon it, and declare 
All that till all be done I will not see; 
I pray you of your pity. 

Barb. Though mine heart 65 

Break, it shall not for fear forsake the sight 
That may be faithful yet in following her. 
Nor yet for grief refuse your prayer, being fain 
To give your love such bitter comfort, who 
So long have never left her. 

Mary Beaton. Till she die — 7° 

I have ever known I shall not till she die. 



228 ^ari? Stuart [act v. 

See you yet aught ? if I hear spoken words, 
My heart can better bear these pulses, else 
Unbearable, that rend it. 

Barb, Yea, I see 

Stand in mid hall the scaffold, black as death, 75 
And black the block upon it : all around. 
Against the throng a guard of halberdiers ; 
And the axe against the scaffold-rail reclined 
And two men masked on either hand beyond : 
And hard behind the block a cushion set, 80 

Black, as the chair behind it. 

Mary Beaton, When I saw 

Fallen on the scaffold once a young man's head, 
Such things as these I saw not. Nay, but on : 
I knew not that I spake : and toward your 

ears 
Indeed I spake not. 

Barb, All those faces change; 85 

She comes more royally than ever yet 
Fell foot of man triumphant on this earth. 
Imperial more than empire made her, born 
Enthroned as queen sat never. Not a line 
Stirs of her sovereign feature : like a bride 90 

Brought home she mounts the scaffold ; and her 

eyes 
Sweep regal round the cirque beneath, and rest. 
Subsiding with a smile. She sits, and they. 
The doomsmen earls, beside her ; at her left 



Scene U] ^Ht^ ^tUHtt 229 

The sherifF, and the clerk at hand on high, 95 

To read the warrant. 

Afary Beaton. None stands there but knows 
What things therein are writ . against her : God 
Knows what therein is writ not. God forgive 
All. 

Barb, Not a face there breathes of all the 
throng 
But is more moved than hers to hear this read, 100 
Whose look alone is changed not. 

Mary Beaton. Once I knew 

A face that changed not in as dire an hour 
More than the queen's face changes. Hath he not 
Ended ? 

Barb, You cannot hear them speak below : 
Come near and hearken ; bid not me repeat 105 
All. 

Mary Beaton. I beseech you — for I may not 
come. 

Barb. Now speaks Lord Shrewsbury but a 
word or twain, 
And brieflier yet she answers, and stands up 
As though to kneel, and pray. 

Mary Beaton. I too have prayed — 

God hear at last her prayers not less than mine, no 
Which failed not, sure, of hearing. 

Barb. Now draws nigh 

That heretic priest, and bows himself, and thrice 



230 ^ar^ Stuart [act v. 

Strives, as a man that sleeps in pain, to speak, 
Stammering : she waves him by, as one whose 

prayers 
She knows may nought avail her : now she kneels, "5 
And the earls rebuke her, and she answers not. 
Kneeling. O Christ, whose likeness there en- 
graved 
She strikes against her bosom, hear her ! Now 
That priest lifts up his voice against her prayer, 
Praying : and a voice all round goes up with his: 120 
But hers is lift up higher than climbs their cry. 
In the great psalms of penitence ; and now 
She prays aloud in English ; for the Pope 
Our father, and his church ; and for her son. 
And for the queen her murderess ; and that God 125 
May turn from England yet his wrath away j 
And so forgives her enemies ; and implores 
High intercession of the saints with Christ, 
Whom crucified she kisses on his cross, 
And crossing now her breast — Ah, heard you 

not ? 130 

Even as thine arms were spread upon the cross y 
So make thy grace ^ O 'Jesus ^ wide for me^ 
Receive me to thy mercy so^ and so 
Forgive my sins. 

Mary Beaton. So be it, if so God please. 

Is she not risen up yet ? 

Barh. Yea, but mine eyes 135 



Scene U] ^gHt^ ^CUHtt 2 3 1 

Darken : because those deadly twain close masked 
Draw nigh as men that crave forgiveness, which 
Gently she grants : /or now, she said, / hope 
Tou shall end all my troubles. Now meseems 
They would put hand upon her as to help, 140 

And disarray her raiment : but she smiles — 
Heard you not that ? can you not hear nor speak. 
Poor heart, for pain ? Truly, she said, my lords, 
I never had such chamber-grooms before 
As these to wait on me. 

Mary Beaton. An end, an end. 145 

Barb. Now come those twain upon the scaf- 
fold up 
Whom she preferred before us : and she lays 
Her crucifix down, which now the headsman 

takes 
Into his cursed hand, but being rebuked 
Puts back for shame that sacred spoil of hers. 150 
And now they lift her veil up from her head 
Softly, and softly draw the black robe ofF, 
And all in red as of a funeral flame 
She stands up statelier yet before them, tall 
And clothed as if with sunset: and she takes 155 
From Elspeth's hand the crimson sleeves, and 

draws 
Their covering on her arms : and now those twain 
Burst out aloud in weeping : and she speaks — 
Weep not ; I promised /or you. Now she kneels ; 



232 ^at^ Stuart [act v. 

And Jane binds round a kerchief on her eyes : i6o 
And smiling last her heavenliest smile on earth, 
She waves a blind hand toward them, with Fare- 
well^ 
Farewell^ to meet again : and they come down 
And leave her praying aloud, In thee^ O Lord^ 
I put my trust: and now, that psalm being through, 165 
She lays between the block and her soft neck 
Her long white peerless hands up tenderly, 
Which now the headsman draws again away. 
But softly too : now stir her lips again — 
Into thine hands ^ O Lord^ into thine hands^ 170 

Lord^ I commend my spirit : and now — but now, 
Look you, not I, the last upon her. 

Mary Beaton. Ha ! 

He strikes awry : she stirs not. Nay, but now 
He strikes aright, and ends it. 

Barb, Hark, a cry. 

Voice below. So perish all found enemies of the 
queen ! 175 

Another Voice, Amen. 

Mary Beaton. I heard that very cry go up 

Far ofF long since to God, who answers here. 

THE END. 



i^otejs to piwcv ^twatt 

For purely biographical material see the Index of Persons. 

1, The motto from ^schylus is thus translated by Plumptre: 
*' Now for the tongue of bitter hate let tongue 
Of bitter hate be given. Loud and long 
The voice of Justice claiming now her debt j 

And for the murderous blow 
Let him who slew with murderous blow repay. 
* That the wrong-doer bear the wrong he did,* 
^ Thrice-ancient saying of a far-off time, 
This speaketh as we speak." 

3. as the first part . . . was dedicated. The dedi- 
cation of Chastelard runs as follows : "I dedicate this play, as a 
partial expression of reverence and gratitude, to the chief of living 
poets ; to the first dramatist of his age j to the greatest exile, and 
therefore to the greatest man of France ; to Victor Hugo." This 
is followed by an extract from Maundevile's Voiage and Travaiky 
ch. xxvin. ** Another Yle is there toward the Northe, in the See 
Occean, where that ben fuUe cruele and ful evele Wommen of 
Nature ; and thei han precious Stones in hire Eyen j and thei ben 
of that kynde, that zif they beholden ony man, thei sley him anon 
with the beholdynge, as dothe the Basilisk." Bothivell has a motto 
from ./Eschylus, and a dedication a Victor Hugo, in the form of a 
French sonnet, 

4. Time. The dates given by Swinburne are New Style. In 
Old Style they become August 4 and February 8. Old Style is used 
for all the dates in these notes. When a date, however, falls between 
January i and March 21, it is credited to the calendar year of our 
modern reckoning. Thus the date of Mary's execution is given as 
February 8, 1587, instead of 1586-7. 

7. Act I. Scene I. Date August 4, 1586. 

7, 5. Shall bleach to death in prison. The date of 
this scene is August 4, 1586. Mary Stuart has been a prisoner of 
Elizabeth, or at least an unwilling guest, for eighteen years. 



234 ipotesf 

II, 112. he that went forth huntsman. Actaeon, for 

his boastfulness changed by Artemis into a stag, and torn to pieces 
by his own hounds on Mount Cithaeron. 

13-14, 157-58. This is . . . queen. The letter is dated 
July 17, 1586, and may be found in Labanoff's Recueil (6, 383), 
together with a discussion of its authenticity. It has been the subject 
of much controversy, since it was mainly upon the evidence of this 
letter that Mary was convicted. Her defenders have claimed that 
the incriminating passages were interpolations forged by Phillipps, 
Walsingham's spy. According to the testimony of Nau and Curie, 
there was first a French minute in Mary's autograph, then a copy 
of this minute made by Nau and given to Curie, then an English 
translation of this copy, made by Curie and by him put into cipher. 
Phillipps intercepted this cipher, translated it for Walsingham, and 
then took it to London, and passed it on to Babington, July 29. 
Phillipps thus had the letter in his possession for more than ten days. 
It is only in this (possibly) altered form that the letter has been 
preserved. The intermediate forms, which were certainly in the 
hands of the ministers, mysteriously disappeared. Babington, of 
course, received the entire contents of the letter in good faith. 

16, 221-22. by what means . . . proceed. This 
passage, and the later passage (19, 278-293) of sixteen lines, 
We can make no day sure . . . cut the common 
posts off, are believed by Mary's defenders to have been forged 
by Walsingham or Phillipps. 

16, 224. this last hold. Chartley Castle. 

17, 230. the ambassador of Spain in France. Men- 

doza. 

17, 250-51. the plot laid of the Puritan part. This 

plot seems to have been an invention of Mary. 

24, 403. the envoy sent from France, Chateauneuf, 
who had just been appointed to succeed Mauvissiere. 

24, 413. the Castle of Dudley. A few miles south of 

Chartley, near Birmingham. 

28,493. those following four. Burghley, Walsingham, 
Hunsdon, and Knowles, named in the following speech. 

28-29, 515-16. at first She writes me, etc. A brief 

dated June 25, 1586. 



iRote0 235 

35, 671. Good Captain Ballard, Father Fortescue. 

Father Ballard assumed the name of Captain Fortescue when he 
visited England in disguise. 

39, 748. Fly ; farewell. All the conspirators but Ballard 
escaped arrest at this time, but were soon thereafter tracked to their 
hiding-places and captured, 

40. Act I. Scenes II, III. Dated August 8, 1586. 

40. Chartley. Chartley Manor is in Staffordshire, and then 
belonged to the Earl of Essex. The castle is now a ruin. 

41, 7. The gospeller that bade us to the sport. Sir 
Amias Paulet, contemptuously called "gospeller" on account of 
his rigid Puritanism. 

41, 22. Since you rode last. Mary's flight to the border 
after her defeat at Langside, when she rode sixty miles in one day. 

4a> 36. The letter that I vrrit, etc. "The famous and 
terrible letter in which, with many gracious excuses and profes- 
sions of regret and attachment, she transmits to Elizabeth a full 
and vivid report of the hideous gossip retailed by Bess of Hardwick 
regarding her character and person at a time when the reporter of 
these abominations was on friendly terms with her husband's royal 
charge." Swinburne. This letter (conjecturally dated November, 
1584) may be read in Labanoff's Recuei/j 6, 50. It is preserved 
among the Cecil papers at Hatfield House, and has never left the 
possession of Burghley's descendants. Labanoff's belief is that it 
was never seen by Elizabeth, but was either despatched to her and 
intercepted by Burghley, or was not sent at all, but seized with 
Mary's other papers at Chartley in 1586. 

43> 54- That other Bess. Elizabeth of Hardwick, Countess 
of Shrewsbury. 

45, 116. Her and her sons . . . four. This is an error. 
The Countess of Shrewsbury had issue only by the second of her 
four husbands. The Countess and her sons circulated a scandalous 
story about Mary and the Earl of Shrewsbury, which they were 
afterwards forced to retract. 

46, 128. her kindless lovers. Unnatural lovers. "Re- 
morseless, treacherous, lecherous, kindless villain ! " Hamlet, 11, 2. 

46, 132. Her chamberlain. Sir Christopher Hatton. 

46, 140. another born her man. Leicester. 



236 iliotesi 

46, 144. one base-born, a strang^er. One Simier, in 

attendance upon the Due d' Anjou, 

46, 147. the duke . . . should be. The Due d'Alen- 
9on, afterwards Due d' Anjou, son of Catherine de' Medici, and 
brother of Charles IX and Henry III, Although much younger 
than Elizabeth, he was proposed to her for a husband, and she kept 
him "hoping and languishing" for twelve years, until his death 
m 1584. 

51,243-44. Parma stands . . . stead. The Prince of 
Parma was a nephew of Don John of Austria. 

51, 248. our kinsman king. Henry III, brother of Mary's 
first husband. 

53, 311. My heart . . . quicken. Note that this line 
is broken, and completed after the interpolated song. 

55» 337- Poor boy that played her bridegroom I 
Francis II, married to Mary at the age of fifteen. 

55> 349- Doth he -wait on you, etc. Thomas Phillipps, 
secretary and spy of Walsingham. " This Phillippes is of low stat- 
ure, slender every way, dark yellow beared on the head and cleare 
yellow bearded, eated in the face with small pockes, of short sight, 
thirtye yeares of age by apparance and as is sayd secretarye Walsing- 
ham's man." Letter from Mary to Morgan, July 17, 1586. 

57i 397' Tixall. An estate near Chartley, owned by Sir 
Walter Aston. 

62, 499-500. last month You writ my master word, 
etc. Paulet to Walsingham, June 29, 1586. See Paulet's Letter 
Book, 211. 

63, 522. the brewer, your honest man. It was ar- 
ranged by the treacherous Gifford that the Burton brewer who 
supplied Chartley with ale should provide a special cask for Mary 
and her household. This cask was furnished with a false bottom, 
by means of which letters were received and despatched. All this 
correspondence was brought into the hands of Walsingham. 

66, 605. the old sa"W. ** Out of God's blessing into the 
warm sun." A proverbial phrase of uncertain origin and meaning. 
" Good King, that must approve the common saw, 
Thou out of heaven's benediction comest 
To the warm sun ! " King Lear, 11, a. 



i^otesf 237 

68, 36. Tutbury. In January, 1585, Mary was removed 
from Wingfield Manor to Tutbury Castle in StaiFordshire, where 
she had been held for a time in 1569. In April, Sir Amias Paulet 
was appointed her keeper. On the Christmas Eve following she was 
removed to Chartley Castle in the same county. 

68, 37. Your birthright in this land, Paulet belonged 
to a Somerset family, and his childhood was spent in that county 
and in Devonshire. 

72, 135-36. you That have this gallant office. Sir 

Thomas Gorges. 

73, 146. A face beside you, etc. Sir William Wade. 
76, 218. and her with me. Mary Beaton. 

79. Act II. Scene I. Dated late in August, 1586. 

79. Windsor Castle. The royal residence on the Thames, 
near "London, occupied by many English sovereigns from William 
the Conqueror to Victoria. 

83, 90. the Parmesan. Alessandro Farnese, Prince of 
Parma, and governor of the Netherlands. 

87, 187. with more pains, etc. The most shocking bar- 
barity was shown in the execution of Babington and his accomplices. 

89. Act II. Scene II. Mary returned to Chartley, August 30. 
This scene must be dated soon after. 

89, 12. seventeen days. From August 8 to August 30, 
according to Labanoff. 

91, 45-47. the witness borne ... By those her 
secretaries. Nau and Curie were interrogated September 2, 
and again September 20. 

91, 55. The Frenchman. Curie. 

93, 87. the most faithful head, etc. Chastelard was 

executed February 22, 1563. 

93, 107- That I shall never leave her till she die. 

** But I will never leave you till you die." The closing line of 
Bothivell. 

99. Tyburn. The place ofexecutionofthese conspirators was 
not Tyburn, but " a fielde at the upper end of Holbome, hard by 
the high way side to S. Giles." 

100, 13-15. one that shall die ... to his defence. 

Babington. 



238 il^otesf 

102, 74. Shows seven for dead, etc. Babington, Bal- 
lard, Tichborne, Savage, Barnwell, Tilney, and Abington were exe- 
cuted September 20, 1586. Salisbury, Donn, Jones, Charnock, 
Travers, Gage, and Bellamy were executed on the day following. 

103, 98. that hallowed earth. Ireland. 

105, 150, And that my brother may possess, etc. 

Babington's estates, which were large, were forfeited to the crown, 
and afterwards bestowed upon Ralegh by Elizabeth. 

106, 168. and verified a saying in me, etc. Silence 
gives consent.- 

III. Act III. Dated October 14, 1586. 

III. Fotheringay Castle. Situated in Northamptonshire, 
near Peterborough. The trial of Mary took place here October 
14-15, 1586, and her execution February 8, 1587. The castle 
was demolished in the seventeenth century. 

III. The Commissioners. Forty-six peers and privy coun- 
cillors constituted the commission for the trial of Mary. They were 
appointed October 6, and thirty-six of them assembled at Fotherin- 
gay October 12. Mary at first refused to appear before them, but 
afterwards consented under protest, and the trial began October 14. 

115, 103. that secretary's. Walsingham. 

1X6, 116. the pope's bull. The bull of Pius V, excom- 
municating and dethroning Elizabeth, was issued in 1570. Similar 
bulls were issued by Gregory XIII and Sixtus V. 

122, 277. her, who contrariwise, etc. " When Burgh- 
ley brought against her the unanswerable charge of having at that 
moment in her service, and in receipt of an annual pension, the 
instigator of a previous attempt on the life of Elizabeth, she had 
the unwary audacity to cite in her justification the pensions allowed 
by Elizabeth to her adversaries in Scotland, and especially to her son. 
It is remarkable that just two months later, in a conversation with 
her keepers, she again made use of the same extraordinary argu- 
ment in reply to the same inevitable imputation, and would not be 
brought to admit that the two cases were other than parallel." 
Swinburne. 

125, 349. Esther than Judith. Instead of playing the part 
of Judith, who slew Holophernes, she would rather, like Esther, 
save her people from massacre. 

126, 387. An act against their lives, etc. In Octo- 



il^otes; 239 

ber, 1584, " Walsingham and Burghley between them bethought 
them of a new and special appeal to the loyalty of the country. An 
' Instrument of an Association for the preservation of the Queen's 
Majesty's Royal person ' was drawn up with great care and circu- 
lated not only among the clergy and nobility, but among freeholders, 
farmers, and all men of substance in the several counties of England 
and Wales, . . . The signatories bound themselves under an oath 
to preserve the Queen's person with their substance and their lives, 
and to * pursue to utter extermination ' all who should attempt to 
harm her * or claim succession to the crown by the untimely death of 
her Majesty. ' ' ' Augustus Jessopp. The provisions of this instru- 
ment were embodied in an Act of Parliament a few weeks later. It 
may be added that Mary subscribed to this *' bond of association." 
141. Act IV. Scene I. Dated November 28, 1586. Bel- 
Hevte had three interviews with Elizabeth, November 28, December 
5, and December 24. The first of them is represented in this scene. 

141. Richmond. On the Thames, between London and 
Windsor. Here Elizabeth often held court, and here she died. The 
palace was demolished in 1648. 

141,6-8. To take off. . .Authority. At midnight of 
the second day of Mary's trial at Fotheringay, Elizabeth sent a mes- 
sage to the commissioners adjourning the case to the Star-Chamber. 

142, 26. piteous challenge and imperial plea. 
Mary's letter to Elizabeth, ? November 19, 1586. Labanoff, 6, 444. 

144, 78. Wise Plato's word. See the Third Book of 
TAe Republic. Jowett's Plato, ni, 104. 

14s, III. These nineteen . . . reign. Elizabeth had 
been upon the throne for nearly twenty-nine years. It may be that 
Bellievre means the (nearly) nineteen years since Mary came to 
England. 

145, 115. rampire. Rampart. The meaning is that fear of 
Mary's succession and a Catholic restoration had rallied the English 
people to Elizabeth's support, and that it would be ruinous to Eng- 
land to have this cause of unity removed. 

146, 122. A certain prince's minister. Mendoza, 
Philip's ambassador, formerly to England, now to France. 

147, 144. she hath three times sought my life. 
The plots of Parry and Babington are two of the three mentioned. 



240 Jliote0 

Swinburne's coupling of the names of Lopez and Parry (82, 65) 
seems to indicate that the plot of Lopez stood in his mind as the 
third (see Index of Persons'). Otherwise, the third would be sup- 
plied by Arden or Somerville, implicated in the Throckmorton con- 
spiracy. 

I47> 15^- who now this second time, etc. Morgan 
instigated Parry's attempted assassination as well as the Babington 
conspiracy. 

150, 226-27. the claim . . . Philip. Should the Prince 
of Parma invade England, France would stand in greater peril from 
Spain than when menaced only by the claim of Philip to the Eng- 
lish succession. 

150, 232. Steer any way, etc. The death of Mary might 
lead to a Spanish occupation of England, thereby exposing France to 
danger from both north and south. 

151, 247. The smooth-cheeked French man-harlot, 

nor that hand, etc. Charles IX of France and Philip II of 
Spain. 

152, 274. those twain that come, etc. Gray and Sir 
Robert Melville. Melville was honest in his efforts to save Mary, 
but Gray, who ostensibly pleaded for her, wrote to Walsingham 
advising that she be murdered in secret. 

IS4> 33 '• liis dead father's slayer. Bothwell. 

I54> 337- that brother-in-law that was of ours. 
Philip II. 

157, 407. what fire of joy brake forth, etc. " From 

tower and steeple the bells crashed out, unceasing for a whole day 
and night. Church answered church till the news had been borne 
to the furthest glen in Cumberland. London was illuminated. Fag- 
gots blazed in town and village j and a shout of exiiltation rose out 
of every loyal throat." Froude. 

161, 492-93. She to this Makes bitter answer, 

etc. The matter here given is paraphrased from Mary's letter to 
the Archbishop of Glasgow, November 24, 1586. LabanofF, 6, 
466. 

162, 522. Be persecuted even as David once. When 

Saul sent messengers to slay David in his house, he escaped through 
the window ( l Safnuel xix, 12) . Afterwards, Saul was defeated and 



^otta 241 

slain on Mount Gilboa by the Philistines, and David succeeded him 
as king of Israel ( i Samuel xxxi, i ). 

162, 528. Our shield shall not, etc. "For there the 
shield of the mighty is vilely cast away, the shield of Saul, as though 
he had not been anointed with oil." (2 Samuel i, 21.) 

163. Act IV, Scene II, Dated December 1 7, 1586. This 
date is determined by one of Paulet's letters. 

165, 54. this hue and cry. "Rumours were spread, that 
London was fired, and the Queen of Scots had escaped ; precepts 
of Aue and cry were sent to the several towns, to retake the fugi- 
tive. " G. Chalmers. 

166, 81. Those treasons of the French ambas- 
sador. The ambassador was Chateauneuf. Swinburne says that 
Elizabeth " had a charge trumped up against him of participation in 
a conspiracy against her life." 

167, 95. this man's tale, etc. See note just preceding. 
On January 4, 1587, one William Stafford, a notorious reprobate, 
sought out Destrappes, Chateauneuf 's secretary, and took him to 
see a man named Moody, an inmate of the debtor's prison at New- 
gate, who offered, for the payment of his debt, to murder Elizabeth. 
Chateauneuf, being warned of this, indignantly drove Stafford from 
his presence when the latter appeared. Two days later, Destrappes 
was arrested and sent to the Tower. Stafford, failing in his attempt 
at blackmail, brought charges against Chateauneuf, who was sum- 
moned to defend himself before a council of ministers. Here Moody 
was impudent enough to accuse Chateauneuf to his face, but the 
case was so obviously trumped-up that nothing came of it. There is 
an anachronism in the discussion of this afiair by Paulet and Drury, 
December 17, 1586. 

167, 102. such means as once, etc. The murder of 

Darnley at Kirk of Field. 

170, 1 79. That oath whereby we stand associated. 

The bond of association. See note 126, 387. 

171,222. Make heretics of these papers. Bum them. 
172, 247-48. God forbid That I should make, etc. 

*' God forbid that I should make so foul a shipwreck of mycon- 
science, or leave so great a blot to my poor posterity, to shed blood 
without law or warrant." Paulet's Letter Booky 36a. 



242 ^ottei 

176. Enter Mary Stuart and Mary Beaton. The 

material for this scene is taken from Paulet's letter to Davison, 
December 21, 1586. 

176, 343- a memorial writ, etc. Mary's last letter to 
Elizabeth, December 19, 1586. 

176, 349- take the assay of it. Mary offers to prove, 
by her own handling of the paper, that it is not poisoned. 

I77> 365- your queen's grandsire. Henry VII. 

181, 451-52. that commission of your causes held 
At York. A conference held at York in October, 1568, to in- 
quire into Mary's guilt in connection with the murder of Darnley. 
It was here that the famous Casket Letters were first produced. No 
definite conclusion was reached. 

181, 459-60. his book Is extant. Probably ^ Defence 
of the Honour of the Right Highe, Mightye, and Noble Princesse 
Marie, ^eene of Scotland and Doivager of France, etc. London, 
1569. The book was at once suppressed, and copies of it are very 
rare. 

182, 472. my lord treasurer. Burghley. 

183, 488-90. my rebels here . . . have been Main- 
tained. See note 122, 277. 

183, 493-94. What did she ... at Newhaven ? 
Newhaven is Havre de Grace. This is an allusion to Elizabeth's 
occupation of that port with an English garrison in 1562, at the time 
of the French civil wars. Curiously enough, Paulet had been asked 
the same question by Catherine de' Medici in 1577, when he was 
at the French court. 

184, 516. his entertainment there. In 1583 Walsing- 

ham was sent to Edinburgh to judge of affairs at close quarters, and 
to dissuade James from negotiating with Spain in his mother's be- 
half. He went reluctantly, and his mission was unfruitful. 

188, 612-13. some one said I must be perilous 
ever. 

" Men must love you in life's spite ; 
For you will always kill them ; man by man 
Your lips will bite them dead ; yea, though you would. 
You shall not spare one ; all will die of you." 

Chastelard, v, 2. 



iPote0 243 

190, 668 my poor servant slain before my face. 

David Rizzio. 

191, 678-79. of him indeed Record was made. He 

was avenged by the murder of Darnley. 

195. Apres tant de jours, etc. See Chastelard^ i, 2. 
This exquisite lyric is a notable illustration of Swinburne's French 
verse. To translate it would be a crime. 

197. Act IV, Scene III. Dated February I, 1587. 

197. Greenwich. Situated on the Thames, a few miles 
below London Bridge. Here Elizabeth was born. The palace was 
destroyed during the Commonwealth, and afterwards rebuilt, but 
converted into a hospital. 

201, 87. This dainty fellow. Sir Amias Paulet. 

202, 112. my lord admiral. Charles Howard, Lord 
Howard of Effingham, Earl of Nottingham. 

202, 124. the lord chancellor. Sir Thomas Bromley. 

203, 145. This letter . . . last writ. The letter is 
dated December 19, 1586. It may be found in Labanoff, 6,474. 

204, 170. her honoured mother's. Mary of Guise. 

207, 249-50. the duke . . . and his knave. The 
Due d'Anjou, and one Simier, in attendance on him. 

208, 263. The she-wolf that I saved, etc. Livy, as 
a rationalizing explanation of the Romulus and Remus story, sug- 
gests that the wolf (lupa) who suckled the princes was a courtesan. 
Hence the Latin word (lupanar) for brothel. By a sort of pun, this 
word is brought into relation with the Louvre (Lupara or Louverie) 
which was originally the name of a hunting-lodge. 

213. Act V. Scene I. Dated February 7, 1586. 
213. O Lord my God, etc. A translation of the Latin 
verses composed by Mary just before her execution. 

O Domine Deus, speravi in te ! 

O care mi Jesu, nunc libera me ! 

In dura catena, in misera poena, 

Languendo, gemendo, et genu flectendo, 

Adoro, imploro ut liberes me. 

213, 17. the earl marshal. The Earl of Shrewsbury. 
221, 205. that the king of Spain, etc. The author of 
La Mort de la Royne d' Ecosse (in Jebb) says that Mary's physician 



244 Jtote0 

and surgeon demanded of Paulet her heart, that they might take it 
to France. 

223, 255. that earl who rose for me with him. 
Thomas Percy, Earl of Northumberland, 

22s, 259. the treasurer. Burghley. 

224. Act V. Scene II. Dated Wednesday, February 8, 
1586. 

229, 112. That heretic priest. Richard Fletcher, Dean 
of Peterborough. 

230, 122. the great psalms of penitence. Miserere 
mei, Deus, etc. In te, Domine, speravi, etc. Qui habitat in ad- 
jutorio, etc. 

231, 159- Weep not . . , you. ** Ne criez vous, j'ay 
promis pour vous." 

232, 170-71. Into . . . spirit. In manus tuas, Domine, 
commendo spiritum meum. Luke xxiii, 46. 

232, 175-76. Voice below . . . Another voice. The 
Earl of Kent and the Dean of Peterborough. 



^ntitv of pev^n^' 

Abington. Edward Abington (or Habington, 1553 ?-i586) 
was one of the conspirators with Babington. He vehemently 
maintained his innocence, but was executed with the others. 

Allen. William Allen (i 532-1 594) was a Catholic theologian 
who left England in 1565, and established a college for English 
students, first at Douay, then at Rheims. In 1584 he entered 
ugpn a course of political intrigue directed against Elizabeth and 
English Protestantism, and advocated the claims of Philip II to 
the English throne. He was made a cardinal in August, 1587. 
The attribution to him of that title in Mary Stuart is thus inac- 
curate. 

Arden. Francis Arden had been in the Tower for over two years 
when mentioned in the play, and was under sentence of death. 
He remained in prison until his escape in 1597. 

Arundel. Philip Howard, first Earl of Arundel (1557-1595), 
was converted to Catholicism in 1584, and intrigued against 
Elizabeth. He was sent to the Tower in 1 5 85, and remained a 
prisoner until his death. 

Aston. Sir Walter Aston {d. 1589) was the owner of Tixall, an 
estate near Chartley. 

Aubespine. See Ch^teauneuf. 

Aumale. Charles de Lorraine, Due d'Aumale (1556-163 1), 
was an adherent of the League in the French religious wars, and 
leader of the party after the murder, in 1588, of Henry I, third 
Duke of Guise. When Sir William Waad was sent to Paris in 
1585 to demand the surrender of Morgan, he was waylaid by 
Aumale near Amiens and given a severe beating. 

I The biographical material of this Index is based chiefly upon the 
Dictionary/ of National Biography, edited by Leslie Stephen and Sidney 
Lee. Only such facts are presented as seem necessary for an intelligent 
reading of the drama. 



246 3|ntier of persfonsf 

Babington. Anthony Babington (156 1- 1586) was a page in 
the household of Mary Stuart during her imprisonment at Shef- 
field, and afterwards leader of the Catholic conspiracy in her be- 
half. He was executed with six of his companions, September 
20, 1585. 

Ballard. John Ballard (J. 1586) was the chief instigator of the 
Babington conspiracy. He was a Jesuit priest, and visited Eng- 
land disguised as a soldier under the name of Captain Fortescue. 
He was the first of the conspirators to be executed September 20. 

Barnes. Thomas Barnes was an agent of Phillipps in betraying 
the correspondence conducted by Mary from Chartley. 

Barn'Well. Robert Barnwell was one of the conspirators with 
Babington. The Dictionary of National Biography gives no 
account of him except in this connection. 

Beale. Robert Beale (1541-1601) was a diplomatist and anti- 
quary, who was sent on numerous missions to Mary, and who 
accompanied Lord Buckhurst when he informed her of the 
death-sentence. He had the duty of reading the warrant aloud 
at Fotheringay just before the execution, of which he has left 
an account. 

Beaton. Mary Beaton is the only character in the tragedy pre- 
sented in a mainly fictitious light. The real Mary Beaton was, 
however, one of the ** four Maries" who attended the Queen 
in her earlier years. She married Alexander Ogilvie while the 
Queen was still in Scotland. 

Beaton. See Glasgow. 

Belleau. Remy Belleau (1528-1577) was a French poet, and 
a member of the Pleiade. 

Bellidvre. Pomponne de Bellievre (1529-1607) was sent by 
the French court to Elizabeth in 1586 to demand Mary's par- 
don. 

Bourgoin. Dominique Bourgoin was Mary's physician, and one 
of the attendants chosen to accompany her to the scaffold. 

Bromley. Sir Thomas Bromley (1530-1587) became Lord 
Chancellor in 1579, and was active in the prosecution of the 
Babington conspirators and of Mary. The strain of her trial and 
execution proved too much for his strength, and he died a few 
weeks afterward. 



3|ni5e]c of per0on0 247 

Buckhurst. Thomas Sackville, first Earl of Dorset and Baron 

Buckhurst (153 6-1608), was the poet of ^ Myrrovrefor Magis- 
trates and Gorboduc. He was one of the commissioners for the 
trial of Mary, but took no part in the proceedings. He was sent 
to Fotheringay in December, 1586, to announce to Mary the 
sentence of death. 
Burghley. William Cecil, Lord Burghley (i 520-1 598), was 
Secretary of State under Elizabeth, and foremost minister of the 
Crown. 

Carey. See Hunsdon. 
Cecil. See Burghley. 
Chastelard. Pierre Boscobel de Chastelard (1540-1563) was 

a French poet who came to Scotland in Mary's train in 15 61. 

Diseovered one night hiding in her bed-chamber -(his second 

offence of this sort), he was seized, sentenced, and hanged the 

next morning, February 22, 1563. 
Chateauneuf. Guillaume de I'Aubespine, Marquis de Chateau- 

neuf (1547— 1629), was sent in August, 1585, to replace Mau- 

vissiere as French ambassador to Elizabeth. 
Curie. Elspeth Curie was a sister of Gilbert Curie, and one of 

Mary's attendants on the scaffold. 
Curie. Gilbert Curie was Nau's subordinate as secretary to Mary. 

Her attendant, Barbara Mowbray, became his wife. 

Davison. William Davison (i 541? -1608) was secretary of 
Elizabeth, and assistant to Walsingham. He was named on the 
commission for the trial of Mary, but took no part in the pro- 
ceedings. He presented the warrant for Mary's execution to 
Elizabeth, who signed it, but asked Davison to hint to Mary's 
keepers that they might privately rid her of her troublesome 
prisoner. He wrote a letter to that effect, but Paulet and Drury 
indignantly repudiated the suggestion. After the execution of 
Mary, he was made a scapegoat by Elizabeth, who charged him 
with having exceeded his instructions, and he was imprisoned in 
the Tower for two years. 

Didier. Didier Sifflard was an aged servant of Mary, a butler, 
mentioned in her will, and one of those chosen to accompany her 
to the scaffold. 



248 31nDe]i: of per^onsf 

Donne. Henry Donn was one of the conspirators tried an^ exe- 
cuted with Babington. 

Drury. Sir Drue Drury (1531?-! 617) was a gentleman-usher 
at Elizabeth's court. In November, 1586, he was sent to Fother- 
ingay to assist Paulet in the wardership of Mary. 

Dudley. See Leicester. 

Egerton. Sir Thomas Egerton, Baron Ellesmere and Viscount 
Brackley (1540?-! 61 7), was Solicitor-General at the time of 
Mary's trial. 

Hlizabeth. Elizabeth, Queen of England and Ireland (1533- 
1603), was the daughter of Henry VIII and Anne Boleyn. She 
came to the throne in 1558. Her attitude toward Mary was 
determined by the fact that the latter laid claim to the throne, 
and had the support of the Catholic party at home and abroad. 
Several attempts upon her life were made in the interest of 
Mary, who connived at, if she did not instigate them. This is 
the ample justification of Mary's trial and execution. 

Ellesmere. See Egerton. 

Farnese. Alessandro Famese, Prince of Parma (1546-1592), 
was an Italian soldier in the service of Philip II, and one of the 
foremost generals of his age. He succeeded his uncle, Don John 
of Austria, as governor of the Spanish Netherlands. 

Fernihurst. Andrew Ker of Ferniehurst was a son-in-law of 
Sir William Kirkcaldy of Grange, and was by him appointed 
provost of Edinburgh at the time when that city was being held 
for Mary against the assault of the English and Scotch partisans 
of her son. 

Fletcher. Richard Fletcher {d. 1596) was Dean of Peter- 
borough, and afterwards Bishop of London. He officiated as 
chaplain at the execution of Mary. He was the father of John 
Fletcher, the dramatist. 

Gage. Robert Gage was one of the conspirators tried and exe- 
cuted with Babington. 

Gawdy. Sir Francis Gawdy (J. 1606) was (Queen's Sergeant, 
and in that capacity opened the case against Mary on the occa- 
sion of her trial. 



3|ni)e)c of persfontf 249 

Gervais. Jacques Gervais was Mary's surgeon, and accompanied 
her to the scaffold. 

Gifford. Gilbert GifFord(l56i ?-i59o) was an unscrupulous 
scoundrel who acted as a spy in the service of Walsingham. 
Being a Catholic, and in orders, he gained the confidence of 
Mary's friends, and betrayed their plans to the government. He 
encouraged the Babington conspirators, and delivered Mary's let- 
ters to his master. He died in prison. " That he was capable 
of almost any villainy is clear." Sidney Lee. 

Gifford. William Gifford ( 15 54-1629) was a lecturer at the Eng- 
lish College at Rheims, and afterwards Archbishop and Duke of 
Rheims, and the first peer of France. There is nothing to indi- 
cate that he was related to the spy Gilbert Gifford. 

Glasgow. James Beaton (or Bethune), Archbishop of Glasgow 
(15*7-1603), was Mary's representative at the French court 
for many years, and administered her revenues as dowager of 
France. 

Gorges. Sir Thomas Gorges was a gentleman of Elizabeth's 
court, sent with Wade to seize Mary's papers at Chartley. 

Gorion. Pierre Gorion was Mary's apothecary, and chosen to 
accompany her to the scaffold. In October, 1587, he returned 
to Paris, and fulfilled the injunctions laid upon him by reporting 
to Mendoza. It may be added that the King of Spain scrupu- 
lously complied with Mary's requests. 

Grange. Sir William Kirkcaldy of Grange (J. 1573) was one 
of Mary's enemies in Scotland, but was later restored to her favor. 
After the assassination of Murray, he held the castle of Edin- 
burgh for the Queen's party, but was forced to surrender it to 
the combined forces of James VI and Elizabeth, whereupon he 
was hanged. 

Gray. Patrick Gray, sixth Lord Gray (J. 161 2), known as the 
"Master of Gray," was commissioned by Mary to represent her 
interests at the court of her son James, but betrayed her secrets 
to him, and plotted against her. 

Grey. See Kent. 

Guise. Francis, second Duke of Guise ( 1 519-1 563) , was Mary's 
uncle, and one of the greatest of French generals. He held 
Metz against Charles V, took Calais from the English, and 



250 ^nt>tx of perflfon0 

brought about the treaty of Cateau-Cambresis. He was assassi- 
nated by a Huguenot nobleman, February i8, 1563. 
Guise. Henry I, third Duke of Guise (1550-1588), was a 
first cousin of Mary. He was the head of the League, and one 
of the contrivers of the Massacre of St. Bartholomew, August 24, 
1572. He was assassinated December 23, 1588. 

Guise. See Lorraine. 

Hardwick. See Shrewsbury. 

Hastings. See Huntingdon. 

Hatton. Sir Christopher Hatton, Lord Chancellor of England 
( 1 540-1 591 ) , was a favorite of Elizabeth, and took a prominent 
part in the trials of Parry, Babington, and Mary. 

Howard. Charles Howard, Lord Howard of Effingham, Earl of 
Nottingham ( 1536-1624), was a distinguished courtier and Lord 
High Admiral. He was appointed a commissioner for Mary's 
trial, but was not present. According to Davison, it was at 
Howard's urgent request that Elizabeth signed the death-warrant. 

Howard. See Arundel. 

Howard. See Norfolk. 

Hunsdon. Henry Carey, first Lord Hunsdon (1524?-! 5 96),' 
was cousin to Elizabeth and chamberlain of her household, also 
the occupant of many responsible positions. He was one of the 
commissioners for the trial of Mary at Fotheringay. 

Huntingdon. Henry Hastings, third Earl of Huntingdon 
(^535-^595)) was for a short time joint custodian (with 
Shrewsbury) of Mary at Tutbury. He was a zealous Puritan, and 
a claimant to the throne of England. 

James. Son of Mary and Darnley ( 1566-1625), became James 
VI of Scotland in 1567 (with Murray as regent), and James I 
of England after the death of Elizabeth in 1603. 

John. Don John of Austria ( 1547-15 78) was an illegitimate son 
of the Emperor Charles V, and celebrated for his victory over 
the Turks at Lepanto (1571). He was governor of the Neth- 
erlands from 1576 to his death. A marriage with Mary was 
planned for him, to take place after the conquest of England by 
Philip II of Spain. 



3|nUe]t: of persfong 251 

Kennedy. Jane Kennedy was one of the attendants who accom- 
panied Mary to the scaffold. She afterwards married Sir Andrew 
Melville. 

Kent. Henry Grey, sixth Earl of Kent {d. 1615), was given 
charge of Mary's execution, in company with the Earl of Shrews- 
bury. 

Ker. See Fernihurst. 

Kirkcaldy. See Grange. 

Kno'wles. Sir Francis KnoUys (15 14? -1596) was put in charge 
of Mary upon her arrival in England, and taught her the English 
language, trying at the same time to convert her. He acted as 
a commissioner at the trials of the Babington conspirators and of 
Mary. 

Leicester. Robert Dudley, Earl of Leicester (i532?-i588), 
was Elizabeth's fevorite courtier, whom early in her reign she 
thought of marrying. About 1563, she suggested him as a pos- 
sible husband for Mary. He became one of Mary's most deter- 
mined enemies, and urged upon Elizabeth that she be privately 
murdered. 

Leslie. See Ross. 

Lewis. See Lodovic. 

Liggons. Ralph Liggons was Mary's agent in Flanders, where 
he had lived in exile for several years. 

Lodovic. Presumably Owen Lewis (1532-1594), a Welsh 
Catholic, who was Bishop of Cassano (Naples) and held other 
ecclesiastic offices abroad. He was a friend of Cardinal Allen 
from their boyhood days, and joint founder with him of the 
English seminaries at Douay and Rome. 

Lopez. Roderigo Lopez was a Portuguese Jew, a physician, who 
settled in England in 1559, and was implicated in a plot to 
murder Elizabeth. He was executed in 1594. The allusion in 
the text is consequently an anachronism. 

Lorraine. Charles, Cardinal of Lorraine ( 1 525-1574), was 
the brother of Francis, Duke of Guise, and Mary's uncle. 

Madge. Margaret of Valois, sister of Charles IX, and wife of 
Henry IV. 



252 '^nntx of per0on0 

Mary Stuart. Mary Queen of Scots ( 1542-1 587) was born in 
Linlithgow Palace, December 7 or 8 , 1 542. She was the daughter 
of James V of Scotland and Mary of Guise. She became an in- 
fant queen December 14, 1542, on the death of her father. On 
July 7, 1548, an arrangement was made for her marriage to the 
French dauphin, and she was at once sent to France for her edu- 
cation. She was married April 24, 1558. When Mary Tudor 
died in November of that year, Mary Stuart claimed the crown, 
and assumed the title of Queen of England, Scotland, and Ireland. 
On July 10, 1559, her husband became Francis II, King of France. 
He died December 5, 1560, and she returned to Scotland August 
19, 1561. She married Henry Stewart, Lord Darnley, July 29, 

1565. It was her intention to restore Catholicism in Scotland, 
and, with this in view, she gave high office to one David Rizzio, 
an Italian. Darnley's jealousy was aroused, and he, with a company 
of angry nobles, dragged Rizzio from her supper-room March 9, 

1566, and murdered him. Pretending a reconciliation with 
Darnley, she escaped with him that night, and fled to Dunbar. 
She soon raised a powerful force, and entered Edinburgh. Mean- 
while, the rebel lords escaped to England. Her son (James VI 
of Scotland and James I of England) was born June 19, 1566. 
Becoming hopelessly estranged from Darnley, she took James 
Hepburn, Earl of Both well, more and more into her favor, and 
plotted with him for the murder of her husband. Darnley, who 
was ill, was taken to a house in Kirk of Field, near Edinburgh, 
and was slain there by an explosion of gunpowder, February 9,1567. 
Bothwell was charged with the crime, and, after a farcical trial, 
was acquitted April 12. He was divorced from his wife Catherine 
Gordon on May 3, and on May 1 5 became Mary's third husband. 
The opposing nobles made war upon him, and at Carberry Hill, 
June 15, Mary surrendered, on condition that Bothwell should 
be allowed to escape unmolested. Bothwell fled into exile, and 
Mary was sent to Lochleven. While there she abdicated, and 
signed an act nominating her half-brother Murray as regent for 
her infant son. She escaped from Lochleven May 2, 1568, 
gathered a force about her, and was finally defeated at Langside, 
May 13. She then crossed the Solway into England, appealing 
to Elizabeth for protection. Then followed her detention at 



3|nOe]c of |Ber0on0 253 

Carlisle, Bolton, Tutbury, Wingfield, Tutbury, Coventry, 
Chatsworth, Sheffield (1570-83), Wingfield, Tutbury, Chart- 
ley, and Fotheringay. During these years occurred the North- 
umberland-Westmoreland plan for a Catholic rising (1569), the 
Ridolfi conspiracy (1572), the plot for an invasion under the 
Duke of Guise (1582), and the Babington conspiracy (1586). 
Mary was also engaged during these years in much active con- 
spiracy with the Catholic enemies of Elizabeth in France, Spain, 
and Italy, She was tried October 14—15, at Fotheringay, for com- 
plicity in the Babington plot. The trial was before a commission 
of English nobles, and Mary conducted her own defence. After 
the second day, Elizabeth adjourned the trial to the star-chamber. 
Here on October 25, with but one dissenting vote, Mary was found 
guilty by the commissioners. About three weeks later, Buck- 
hurst and Beale brought the verdict to her. The sentence was 
proclaimed and welcomed throughout England, but Elizabeth did 
not sign the death-warrant until February 1,1587. At the same 
time she sent word to Paulet, Mary's keeper, indicating her dis- 
pleasure that he should not, in aH this time, have found some 
secret way of doing away with his prisoner. On February 7, 
Shrewsbury and Kent came to Fotheringay to superintend the 
execution of the sentence, and on the following morning she 
was beheaded in the great hall of the castle. She met her death 
with courage and dignity, solemnly avowing her Innocence, and 
praying for her church and her enemies. Elizabeth pretended 
that she had never meant the execution to take place, vented her 
displeasure upon those immediately responsible for it, and gave 
her victim a royal burial, August i , in Peterborough Cathedral. 
The remains were afterwards transferred by James I to Westmin- 
ster Abbey. 

Melville. Sir Andrew Melville was master of the household of 
Mary during her latter years, and brother of Robert, first Lord 
Melville. He accompanied his mistress to the scaffold. He after- 
wards married Jane Kennedy. 

Melville. Sir Robert Melville, first Lord Melville, was employed 
by Mary in diplomatic negotiations with Elizabeth. After the 
sentence, he was sent by James VI with the Master of Gray to 
entreat Elizabeth to spare Mary's life. 



254 3Intie)c of pers?onfl( 

Mendoza. Don Bernardino de Mendoza was Spanish ambassador 
to the English court, and was charged with complicity in the 
Throckmorton conspiracy. In consequence of this he was ex- 
pelled from the country in January, 1584. 

Mildmay. Sir Walter Mildmay (1520?-! 589) was Chancel- 
lor of the Exchequer, and founder of Emmanuel College, Cam- 
bridge. He was one of the commissioners at Mary's trial. 

Morg^an. Thomas Morgan (i 543-1606 ?) was a Catholic con- 
spirator devoted to the cause of Mary. He was with her in Lord 
Shrewsbury's castle at Tutbury, where he managed her correspond- 
ence. In 1573 he went to Paris, and became her confidential 
agent abroad. He was implicated in Parry's plot to assassinate 
Elizabeth, and his surrender was demanded from the French 
king. This was not granted, but he was imprisoned in the 
Bastille, where he continued his activities as agent and conspirator. 
He helped to organize the Babington conspiracy. 

Mowbray. Barbara Mowbray was one of Mary's attendants. 
She married Gilbert Curie, the secretary, and their child was 
baptized by Mary with her own name. 

Murray. Lord James Stewart, Earl of Moray (1531 ?-l57o) 
was Mary's half-brother and regent of Scotland. He was assassin- 
ated by James Hamilton. 

Nau. Claude de la Boisseliere Nau {ft. 1574-1605) was Mary's 
French secretary from 1575. 

Neville. See Westmoreland. 

Norfolk. Thomas Howard, fourth Duke of Norfolk (1536- 
1572), was a son of the poet Henry Howard, Earl of Surrey. 
He was the first subject in England under Elizabeth, and sought 
to become the fourth husband of Mary Stuart. Conspiring for 
her liberation, he was executed as a traitor. 

Northumberland. Henry Percy, ninth Earl of Northumber- 
land (1564-1632), whose father had died (probably by suicide) 
in the Tower the year before the date of this mention of the 
son, was a Protestant, but his intimacy in Paris with Charles 
Paget placed him under suspicion of being an adherent of Mary's 
cause. 



31ni)e]c of per0on0 255 

Northumberland. Thomas Percy, seventh Earl of Northum- 
berland, was beheaded at York, August 22, 1572, for conspir- 
acy against Elizabeth. 

Nottingham. See Howard. 

Paget. Charles Paget [d. 1612) was a younger brother of 
Thomas Paget. He left England about 1 572, and settled in 
Paris, where for many years he intrigued in Mary's cause, and 
shared in the administration of her immense dowry in France. 
He was attainted in 1587. 

Paget. Thomas, third Lord Paget (</. 1590), fled to Paris after 
the discovery of Throckmorton's conspiracy in 1583. Elizabeth 
demanded his surrender by the French king, hut was refused. 
He was attainted in 1587, and died in exile. 

Parma. See Farnese. 

Parry. William Parry (d. 1585) was a Catholic conspirator, 
implicated with Morgan and Charles Paget in a plot to murder 
Elizabeth. Elected to Parliament in 1584, he was expelled a few 
months later, charged with high treason, convicted, and executed 
March 2, 1584-85. 

Parsons. Robert Parsons ( 1546-16 10) was an English Jesuit, 
active in intrigue against Elizabeth and the Protestants in Eng- 
land. 

Paulet. Sir Amias Paulet (i536?-i588) was the keeper of 
Mary durmg her last year. He fulfilled his difficult duties in a 
strictly conscientious manner, and sternly refused to act upon the 
suggestion, sent him by Davison, that the secret murder of his 
prisoner would spare Elizabeth much embarrassment. 

Percy. See Northumberland. 

Philip. Philip II, King of Spain (1527-1598), was the only 
son of the Emperor Charles V. In 1 5 54 he married Mary Tudor, 
Queen of England, and after her death attempted to obtain the 
hand of Elizabeth. 

Phillipps. Thomas Phillipps was the secretary and spy of Wal- 
singham who intercepted and deciphered Mary's correspondence. 
He is known to have lived until 1622, or later. 

Pierpoint. Elizabeth Pierpoint was a daughter of Sir Henry 
Pierpoint, who married Frances Cavendish, one of the children of 
the Countess of Shrewsbury by her second husband. 



256 Slnuer of per^on^ 

The Pope. Gregory XIII (1572-1585), Sixtus V (1585- 
1590). 

Popham. Sir John Popham (i 5 3 1 ? -i 607) was Attorney-Gen- 
eral at the time of Mary's trial. 

Ronsard. Pierre deRonsard (1524-15 85), " prince of poets,** 
was the chief of the Pleiade. 

Ross. John Leslie, Bishop of Ross ( 1527-1596), was intimately 
associated with Mary's affairs from the time of her arrival in 
Scotland. He was one of her most trusted counsellors, and was 
concerned in many intrigues on her behalf. From 1574 he 
represented her interests in Paris and Rome. He was a volumin- 
ous writer of historical and political controversy, and the chief 
literary champion of the Catholic party in Scotland. 

Sackville. See Buckhurst. 

Salisbury. Thomas Salisbury (1555 ?-i 586) was one of the 
conspirators with Babington. He pleaded guilty to the charge 
of inciting rebellion and foreign invasion, but denied that he had 
plotted the assassination of Elizabeth. He was executed Septem- 
ber 21, the day after Babington and his six associates; this 
accounts for the fact that he does not appear in Act 11, Scene 3, 
of the tragedy. 

Savage. John Savage (^. 1586) was a Catholic soldier. He 
met Ballard in London in 1586, and volunteered to join the 
Babington conspiracy. When brought to trial, he confessed to 
the whole indictment. 

Shrewsbury. Elizabeth Talbot, Countess of Shrewsbury ( 1 5 1 8- 
1608), known as " Bess of Hardwick," took the sixth Earl of 
Shrewsbury for her fourth husband in 1568. She was famous 
as a builder and as a woman of affairs. 

Shrewsbury. George Talbot, sixth Earl of Shrewsbury (1528?- 
1590), was in charge of Mary from 1569 to 1584. He pre- 
sided at her execution. 

Stuart. See Murray. 

Talbot. Mary Cavendish was a daughter of the Countess of 
Shrewsbury, and wife of Gilbert Talbot, son of the Earl of 
Shrewsbury by a former marriage. 



iflnDer of persfon0 257 

Talbot. See Shrewsbury. 

Throgmorton. Thomas Throckmorton {d. 1595), a brother 
of the conspirator Francis Throckmorton (executed 1584), settled 
in Paris as one of Mary's agents in 1582. 

Tichborne. Chidiock Tichborne (i558?-i586) was one of 
the conspirators with Babington. The letter which he wrote to 
his wife on the eve of his execution is preserved, as well as a 
poem of three stanzas which he is said to have written in the 
Tower. 

Tilney. Charles Tilney (156 1- 158 6) was one of the conspir- 
ators with Babington. He has been mentioned as possibly the 
author of Tie Tragedy of LocrinCj on the strength of a manu- 
script note to that effect by George Buc, found by Collier in 
a copy of the 1595 edition of the play. 

Wade. Sir William Wade (or Waad) (1546-1623) was a diplo- 
matist who was sent to Mary to propose terms with Elizabeth, 
who went to Paris to secure Morgan's extradition, and who 
seized Mary's papers at Chartley. 

Walsingham. Sir Francis Walsmgham (1536 ?-i59o) was 
Secretary of State under Elizabeth, and employed upon various 
foreign missions. He was one of the commissioners on the trial 
of Mary, and was accused by her partisans of having forged the 

• letters to Babington offered as evidence of her guilt. 

Westmoreland. Charles Neville, sixth Earl of Westmoreland 
(1543-1601), joined the Earl of Northumberland in rebellion 
against Elizabeth (1569), and escaped into the Spanish Nether- 
lands, where he lived in exile the rest of his life. 

Wyatt. Sir Thomas Wyatt the younger (1521 ?-i554) was a 
son of the poet, and leader of an insurrection against Mary 
Tudor in 1 5 54. For this enterprise, undertaken in opposition to 
her marriage with Philip II, he was executed for high treason. 



chronological ti&t of Wtitinq^ 

i860. The Queen Mother, and Rosamond. 
1865. Atalanta in Calydon. 

1865. Chastelard : A Tragedy. 

1866. Poems and Ballads. 

1866. Note on Poems and Reviews. 

1867. A Song of Italy. 
•1868. Siena. 

1 868. William Blake : A Critical Essay. 

1870. Ode on the Proclamation of the French Republic} Sep- 

tember 4th, 1870. 

1 871. Songs before Sunrise. 

1872. Under the Microscope. 

1874. Bothwell: A Tragedy. 

1875. George Chapman. 
1875. Essays and Studies. 

1875. Songs of Two Nations (A Song of Italy, Ode on the Pro- 

clamation of the French Republic, and Dirae). 

1876. Erechtheus: A Tragedy. 

1876. Note of an English Republican on the Muscovite Crusade. 

1877. A Note on Charlotte Bronte. 

1878. Poems and Ballads. Second Series. 
1880. A Study of Shakespeare. 

1880. Songs of the Springtides. 
1880. Studies in Song. 

1880. Specimens of Modern Poets. The Heptalogia j or, the 

Seven against Sense. A Cap with Seven Bells. 

1 88 1. Mary Stuart: A Tragedy. 

1882. Tristram of Lyonesse, and Other Poems. 

1883. A Century of Roundels. 

1884. A Midsummer Holiday, and Other Poems. 
2885. Marino Faliero : A Tragedy. 



26o Clironological Ma of Mxitin& 

1886. A Study of Victor Hugo. 

1886. Miscellanies . 

1887. A Word for the Navy. 
1887. Locrine : A Tragedy. 
1889. A Study of Ben Jonson. 

1889. Poems and Ballads. Third Series. 

1892. The Sisters : A Tragedy. 

1894. Astrophel, and Other Poems. 

1894. Studies in Prose and Poetry. 

1896. The Tale of Balen. 

1899. Rosamund, Queen of the Lombards. 

1904. A Channel Passage, and Other Poems. 

X905. Love's Cross Currents. 

This list includes all of Swinburne's works that have appeared 
as individual publications with title-pages of their own. To them 
should be added Dead Love (in Once-a-Week^ 1862), and ji 
Yearns Letter s^ by Mrs. Horace Manners (m The Tatler, 1877). 



The place of publication is London unless otherivise indicated. 

I. TEXTS. 

z88l. Mary Stuart. A Tragedy. By Algernon Charles 
Swinburne. Chatto & Windus. 

1881. Mary Stuart. A Tragedy. By Algernon Charles 
Swiiit)urne. New York : R. Worthington. 

1884. Selections from the Poetical Works of A. C. 
Swinburne. Edited by R. H. Stoddard. New York : Thomas 
Y. Crowell & Co. 

1899. Mary Stuart. A Tragedy. By Algernon Charles 
Swinburne. Second edition. Chatto & Windus. 

X906. Tragedies. By Algernon Charles Swinburne. Vol- 
ume IV. Chatto & Windus. New York : Harper & Brothers. 

II. WORKS. BIOGRAPHICAL AND 
CRITICAL. 

This list is made ivith special reference to Stvinburne'' s tragedies. 
Other references^ concerned ivith bis poetic ivork in general, may be 
found in the Bibliographical Note to Selected Poems by Algernon 
Charles Swinburne, edited by W. M. Payne for Section VI of the 
Belles Lettres Series. 

1865. Atalanta in Calydon. Edinburgh Review, 122, 
202. 

1865- Atalanta in Calydon. Fortnightly Review, 1, 75. 

1865- Atalanta in Calydon. Nation, i, 75. (C. E. 
Norton.) 



262 515ibltograpft^ 

1866. Chastelard. Fortnightly Re-view ^ 4, 533. (Lord 
Houghton. ) 

1871. Our Living Poets. An Essay in Criticism. By 
H. Buxton Forman. Tinsley Brothers. 

1873. My Study Windows. By James Russell Lowell. 
Essay, Sivinburne^ s Tragedies. 

1874. BoTHWELL. Macmillan' s Magazine^ 30, 521. 

1874. BoTHWELL. Temple Bar, 41, 545. 

1875. Victorian Poets. By E. C. Stedman. Revised 
and extended edition, 1887. Boston: Houghton, Mifflin & Co. 

1876. Erechtheus. Edinburgh Re^vieiv, 144, 147. 
1882. BoTHWELL. Fortnightly Review, iz, 76. (Lord 

Houghton. ) 

1882. Mary Stuart. Dial, 2, 237. (F. F. Browne.) 

1882. The Mary Stuart Trilogy. Fortnightly Review, 
37, 166. (G. A. Simcox.) 

1882 The Mary Stuart Trilogy. Fraser^s Magazine, 
106, 469. (T. Bayne.) 

1883. Mary Stuart. Lippincott'' s Magazine, 32, 506. 

1883. ENCYCLOPiEDiA Britannica. Ninth edition. Vol. xv. 
Article, Mary Stuart, by A. C. Swinburne. 

1884. Introduction to Selections from the Poetical 
Works of A. C. Swinburne. By R. H. Stoddard. New York : 
Thomas Y. Crowell & Co. 

1885. Urbana Scripta. By Arthur Galton. 

1885. Marino Faliero. Academy, 27, 412. (E. Robert- 
son.) 

1885- Marino Faliero. Athenaum, i, 751. 

1886. Miscellanies. By A. C. Swinburne. Chatto & 
Windus. New York: Worthington Co. Reprint of Encyclo- 
paedia Britannica essay, and (Appendix iii) Note on the Character 
of Mary S^een of Scots. [This essay and note are both reprinted 
in vol. IV of the collected edition (1906) of the Tragedies."]^ 

1887. Bibliography of Swinburne. By Richard Heme 
Shepherd. 

1887. LocRiNE. Saturday Review, 64, 763. 
1 887' LocRiNE. Gentleman^ Magazine, n. s., 39, 608. 
(R. H. Shepherd.) 



315ibUograpl!^ 263 

1887. LocRiNE. Athenauniy z, 856. 

1888. Studies New AND Old. ByW. L. Courtney. Chap- 
man & Hall. 

1888. LocRiNE. Spectator y 61, 16. 

1892. The Sisters. Athenaum^ *> S'* 

1892. The Sisters. Gentleman' s Magazine, n. s., 49, I12. 

1892. The Sisters. Saturday Re-vieiv, 73, 602. 

1892. The Sisters. Academy, 42, 5. (G. Cottrell.) 

1893. The Sisters. Spectator, 69, 19. 

1897. A Library of the World's Best Literature. 
Edited by Charles Dudley Warner. New York : R. S. Peale 
and J. A. Hill. Vol. xxiv. Article by W. M. Payne. 

1899. Locrine. Academy, Locrine on the Stage, 56, 362. 

1899. Locrine. Athenaum, Locrine on the Stage, 1, 380. 

1900. Rosamund, Queen OF the Lombards. Academy, ^f, 

534- 

1900. Rosamund, Queen of the Lombards. Critic, 36, 
152. (E. M. Thomas.) 

1900. Rosamund, Queen of the Lombards. Nation, 70, 
361. 

Z9OO. Rosamund, Queen of the Lombards. Dial^ 28, 
48. (W. M. Payne.) 

1900. Rosamund, Queen of the Lombards. Book Buyer, 
20, 54. (W. C. Brownell.) 

1900. Algernon Charles Swinburne. A Study. By 
Theodore Wratislaw, Greening & Co. New York : A. Wes- 
sels Co. 

1902. The Queen Mother. Gentleman'' s Magazine, it. ^., 
68, 301. (R. CoUes.) 

1903. Early Dramas and Poems. Gentleman^ s Magazine, 
N. s., 71, 128. (R. Colles. ) 

1904. Chambers's CYCLOPi9EDiA of English Literature. 
Edited by David Patrick. Edinburgh : W. & R. Chambers. 
Philadelphia : J. B. Lippincott Co. Vol. iii. Article by James 
Douglas. 

1905. The Poems of Algernon Charles Swinburne. Six 
volumes. Chatto & Windus. New York : Harper & Brothers. 
Vol. I. Dedicatory epistle to Theodore Watts-Dunton. 



264 llBtbliograpJ^ 

1905. Algernon Charles Swinburne. By George Edward 
Woodberry. Contemporary Men of Letters Series. New York : 
McClure, Phillips & Co. 



734 



1 8 ,. ^ 






"^>K ^ O JJ X 



"^^ #^ ..cr'? ^'f.'^c 



::-^Xx . '' 



-tSSir; 



,^o^ 



^-. ^^^ 



O 






.v^-^ 






%.^'^ ' 



<&' CS' 



■f^ 






\ 1 H 







y.s'^o. ^■-- 



V . s 



.\' * 



:^^' 



'^. 






^.> "% ^' 







'^^. 



■^^^ .<& 






,V' 



Deacidified using the Bookkeeper process. 
Neutralizing agent: Magnesium Oxide 
Treatment Date: May 2009 

PreservationTechnologies 

A WORLD LEADER IN COLLECTIONS PRESERVATION 

111 Thomson Park Drive 
Cranberry Township, PA 16066 
(724)779-2111 



O ■•' 









^^ K 








V^'^^W^ ^5^ 


'--% 




o - " -^ 



:'• o 



,0^" 



q5 Xl- 













^"%, 






(\\ M C „ '^ "^i 



.'-Jv' 



'"oo^ 



. ^z. v^ 






^ V = -VN 



x^^<^.. 




^o 



<=^. ^. ^- .<■ .0 o_ ^^^^y a.^^ 



A 



.0 hO^^O' 






vX' '•/■'. 



,v^' 



LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 




014 525 385 8 



^ '-'.• ■'. '^ i' :, 
■ ■'/■■■.■■'.,.'' 'ff-.' 



f ■ I'. 



m:\-m- 

.Mir!'.;!---! 






